A World on Fire
by BlackIceWitch
Summary: AU story. In 2010, an attempt to change the course of Destiny goes wrong, very badly wrong. Castiel, Dean and Sam are thrown into a world and a time of savagery and danger, a world where legend and myth were born. There is no escaping what each must face, but in such a different world, they might each find what they are seeking. No slash, no spoilers.
1. Prologue

**A World on Fire**

**Prologue**

* * *

_You are what your deep driving desire is._

_As your desire is, so is your will._

_As your will is, so is your deed._

_As your deed is, so is your destiny._

_~ Brihadaranyaka Upanishad IV_

* * *

I have studied the lines of Destiny for more than two thousand years, and still, I cannot point to one node or another in the lines and say – yes, this is the decision that will change all the rest.

If we are to believe, as I now must, that free will is a part of the natural order, and each and every one of our choices have meaning and weight, it cannot be foretold, or prophesised, where or when a decision will take a soul to this destiny or to that one.

I only know that of all the choices I have made, and of all the choices I have witnessed watching humankind on this small, insignificant planet, the one I made on January 8th, in the year 2010, was the most important.

If not for the world, then for the brothers whom I had come to feel as closer to me than my own family.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

_January 8__th__ 2010_

Castiel sat on the bench in the park. He watched the birds land by the icy pond, the fragile, frozen reeds bend in the slight breeze that soughed from the north. He thought of all the possibilities for change that lay within his reach. He could not determine, precisely, which would definitively change the path that had led them here. He hoped he would be able to recognise the moment when it came.

From behind, he heard their footsteps, crunching over the frozen grass and he felt a shiver pass through his vessel.

"Cas." Dean hunched into his coat, looking around the ice-mantled park. "You wanted to see us?"

Sam stood behind him, the army jacket zipped up to his chin. Castiel looked at them, and rose to his feet. From the deep interior pocket of his coat, he took three angel swords, passing one to Dean, one to Sam. The brothers exchanged a glance, and then looked down at the swords in their hands. Both lifted their gazes to the angel at the same time.

"Killing angels?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it, but it seems a bit redundant now."

"Just one." Castiel looked at him. "A long time ago."

He shrugged "Well, for you anyway. I've been looking at the pattern for weeks, and we can put an end to everything that's happened at this one moment. But I need your help."

"Time travel?" Sam looked at Dean. "I thought you said we couldn't change destiny that way."

"In most cases, no. In this case, I believe that we'll be able to." Castiel stepped closer to them. Dean looked at him warily.

"Who are we going to kill, Cas?" he asked.

"Azazel," Castiel said simply. "On July second in 1972, he is present in St Mary's Convent, Ilchester, Maryland. He slaughters eight nuns."

"Azazel's a demon." Sam frowned.

"Once he was an angel." Castiel looked from one to the other. "Once he fell, and fought with Lucifer. He was cast into perdition. And with the others he was tortured and twisted. But the angel blade can still kill him. As the Colt could." He looked at the knife sheathed on Sam's belt. "As that knife cannot."

"The Colt could kill angels?" Dean looked surprised. "It didn't kill Lucifer."

"No, but it could kill any other angel, except Michael." Castiel looked around, distractedly. Something else was nearby. "We have to hurry."

He reached out to them, laying his fingers against their temples. Dean bent his knees and braced himself. Sam started to say something, as he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision.

Then there was blackness.

The times when Castiel had previously transported them, the transfer was instantaneous. This time it was not. There was a wrench, a push against them and they spun around, Sam's hand flying out, gripping his brother's arm tightly.

Dean could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, could feel the rush of his blood through his veins. Darkness and colour coruscated against his closed eyelids, a weight pressed down on him, heavier and heavier as the moment in between time grew longer. He couldn't feel Castiel's fingers against his face, couldn't feel Sam's hand on his arm; for a terrifying moment he wondered if he'd been cast away, to remain in the void for eternity. There was no air to breathe and his lungs ached, then burned.

Then light returned, bright and sharp behind his lids and he felt the uneven ground beneath his feet, stumbling, flinging his hands out for balance as his eyes opened.

The dull pewter-coloured sky seemed close to them, and as he turned around, regaining his balance, he realised that they were high in a mountain range, above the snowline, broken granite rock pushing through the thin grass of an alpine meadow.

Beside him, Sam was on his knees, gasping as he braced himself against the ground, the angel sword still held tightly in his hand, gleaming dully in the diffuse light. Dean looked around and saw Cas, lying on the ground several feet away, his head thrown back, still.

He walked unsteadily to the angel, kneeling and lifting his head gently. Blood coated the lower half of his face, rivulets had leaked from his eyes and ears, had poured from his nose. Laying his fingers against the carotid artery in Cas' neck, he was relieved when he found a pulse, and the pulse was weak, but steady.

He looked across to Sam. "You alright?"

Sam nodded, leaning back on his heels and looking around slowly. "Yeah. That was worse than the last time."

He frowned as he took in the mountains, the tree line of birch and pine below them. "Dean …"

Castiel twitched, and Dean looked down. "Mmm?"

"I don't think we're in the States anymore." Sam frowned as he looked to the north. Jagged mountains, peaked with snow, curved northwards.

"Where are we?" Dean looked up, his brows drawing together.

"I don't know," Sam said quietly. "But these mountains, look at them." He got to his feet and turned around. The range he was looking at curved and twisted south and east; sharp, grey, snow sitting on their peaks, tinged to silver in the grey light. The thinness of the air told him that they were very high.

The angel coughed, his chest hitching as he pulled in a deep breath. Dean eased him into a sitting position. "Cas?"

Castiel opened his eyes slowly, squinting as the light hit them. "Dean? Is Sam here?"

"Yeah, we made it." Dean looked down at his friend's face. "You look like your brain leaked, man."

"There was a push … someone interfered as we were leaving," Castiel said disjointedly, looking around.

"Know where we are?" Dean looked up at his brother. Sam was walking slowly around the clearing.

Castiel closed his eyes. He seemed to be listening to something. After a moment, he opened them again and looked at Dean.

"Oh, yes," he said, his tone harsh. "I know where we are. And when."

Dean's brows drew together a little at the angel's haggard expression.

"And?"

"We are between Russia and Georgia, in the Caucasus Mountains. Three hundred and twenty-three years before the birth of Christ."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

"We're in Russia?" Sam brows shot up as he looked at Dean.

"Well, it's not really Russia now. A collection of minor kingdoms since the death of Alexander. But yes." Castiel climbed slowly to his feet, leaning on Dean.

"You're referring to Alexander the Great?" Sam said flatly.

The angel nodded.

"Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make sure we couldn't succeed in changing the lines," Cas said bleakly. "Until I can regain some strength … I'm sorry but I'm afraid we must remain here."

"Awesome." Dean looked around. "We're twenty-three hundred years in the past, we don't know the customs, don't speak the languages, don't know what the hell is going on. We'll be dead before you're juiced up again, Cas."

"I can take care of the language problem," Castiel assured him quietly. "We need to find somewhere to take shelter, there's a storm coming." He looked to the east, where a thin line of dark grey cloud was forming.

"Yeah." Dean looked at Sam. "Know anything about where we are?"

"Oh, so now being a geek is useful?" Sam curled his lip at his brother. Dean shrugged.

"It's always useful, it's also always embarrassing."

"Huh." Sam looked around. "No, not much. But this area was … is … populated, we need to get lower to find settlements."

They headed down the slope, picking their way through the meadow, until they'd reached the tree line. Dean cut three straight, long saplings from a stand of young birch trees. He trimmed the branches off, smoothing the slim trunks. He handed one to Castiel and one to Sam. The staffs would be useful both in travelling and as a makeshift weapon with a decent reach, if need be.

The forest below the snow line was thick, but here and there narrow trails wound among the trees, used by the animals of the region, perhaps by the locals leading their livestock up to the sweet grasses of the alpine pastures.

Picking their way through the trees, the going was slow, the trails covered by a deep, slippery layer of pine needles and leaf mulch, steep and occasionally blocked by fallen trees. Here and there the bones of the mountain protruded, granite outcroppings and rock faces, a reminder than the range was relatively young. Dean felt the angel slip again, tightening his grip around Cas' ribs as he took his weight and kept him upright. Even with the aid of the staff and his support, he didn't think Cas was going to be able to go on much further.

* * *

By the time the sky darkened with the outriders of the storm, they had reached the edge of the boreal forest, and the maple and oak, beech and hemlock provided relative warmth and shelter as thunder rumbled above.

"You alright, man?" Dean asked Cas as he caught another movement in his peripheral vision and slowed.

The angel nodded, leaning heavily on the staff when Dean let him go. "What is it?"

"Not sure," Dean hedged. "Keep going, I'll catch up."

He watched as Cas took a few steps down the trail without him and looked over his shoulder as Sam caught up.

"Did you see that?" Dean whispered to Sam, glancing back at the trail behind them. Sam turned his head slightly.

"Yeah. Something's tracking us."

"This just gets better and better," Dean growled. "How big do you think this forest is?"

Sam shrugged ruefully. "No logging, no manufacturing, it could be a million acres, it could be ten million."

"We need to find something soon. A cave, if nothing else," Dean said worriedly. "Cas doesn't have much left."

Sam nodded. "We need to bear right a bit more. There was a creek higher up; we might find something closer to the water."

"All right." Dean extended his stride, catching up with the angel who stumbled along in front of them. He spotted a small side trail to the right and guided Castiel to it.

* * *

They found the gully containing the creek an hour later. Above them, the storm had thickened, the wind rising and howling in the upper valleys, lightning still far off but getting closer, the distant rumbles of thunder continuous. As Sam had hoped, the water had cut through the rock and there were hollows and openings along the edges. It would be raining soon and none of them could afford the loss of heat that being drenched would take from them. Sam pointed as they followed the line of the running water, picking out the darker opening as lightning lit the narrow valley in blinding white.

"Dean. There."

Dean turned to look. The cave opening wasn't large, but it looked deep, the blackness impenetrable from where he stood. He felt for his Colt automatic, pulling it from his jacket and thumbing off the safety. Just their luck to run into a cave with an inhabitant, he thought. Bear and wolf and god knows what else must have been plentiful around here at one time – in this time, he corrected himself. He hoped it would be small enough to be killed by the rounds he carried, not just aggravated into a rage by them.

He stopped at the opening, leaning his staff against the outside wall and pulling out the small flashlight from his pocket. Swallowing the feeling of relief when it worked, he played the beam around the walls of the opening. The air smelled dusty, but untainted by any other scent; in particular there was no trace of the rank stench of a predator. He walked inside slowly. After a few feet, the narrow entrance opened up, into a larger cave. The floor was dry, soft dirt. The walls were also dry. He walked to the back, where a narrow hole angled up. There was a faint air movement there, carrying a damp scent, of earth, of growing things. A natural chimney? He shone the light into the hole, which twisted and turned through the rock above. It was bare and smooth.

He returned to the entrance and waved at Sam and Castiel. It would do them for the night, he thought with satisfaction. At least they weren't likely to die the first day.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Dean walked with his brother through the forest, gathering wood. They'd settled the angel, Cas' face pinched and white with fatigue, and Sam'd pointed out that they'd need a fire through the night, for both warmth and as a discouragement to anything thinking about snacking on them. The fallen branches were still dry and dense and plentiful and they returned to the cave loaded with armfuls. Sam made a small fire at the rear, under the chimney, the lighters having made the time journey with no more than the flashlights. When the heat began to rise, the smoke was drawn straight up,.

"Good." Dean looked at it. "We won't suffocate."

Castiel lay on a bed of hastily-gathered bracken. He'd washed his face in the creek outside as the brothers had collected the wood for the fire, and aside from his head feeling as if it had been broken open and only loosely glued back together, he thought he was recovering. He hadn't told them how badly he'd been injured. They didn't need the extra worry.

He couldn't think which of the angels had diverted them to this time, this place. The effort it must have taken was considerable, and he began to consider that it might not have been an individual, working alone.

Sam fed the fire slowly, until the bed of coals was well established. He laid several of the larger pieces down as the storm broke overhead. At the narrow entrance, Dean crouched, watching the rain drum down, the creek rising and tossing with the water coming from the mountainsides above them. They were well above the level of it, he noted. Sam thought that gully had been formed by ice, rather than water.

His attention was caught by a movement in the trees on the opposite bank. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the sheeting rain. The trees were lashing in the wind funnelled down the gully, the undergrowth shaking with the force of wind and rain. He saw nothing further, but a sense of uneasiness remained. He and Sam would take watches tonight, he decided, reaching into his pocket to the comforting grip of his gun.

* * *

The storm lasted through the night. Dean fed the fire periodically and the enclosed air of the cave was warm and dry. He looked at his brother and the angel, sleeping to either side. Sam had taken the first watch and now, in sleep, the years had dropped away from him. He looked no more than eighteen again, Dean thought, the corner of his mouth tucking in at his momentary nostalgia. A branch broke in the fire, and the brighter light from the fresh flame banished the shadows. He couldn't remember ever feeling as young as his little brother looked.

Two hours later, he leaned back against the wall of the cave and stretched, watching daylight creep over the landscape minute by minute. The rain had stopped, but the world was still dripping. The creek rushed along, brown and muddied now, branches tossed in the white water as it poured over rocks and raced around the bends.

He was hungry, and he had a sinking feeling that he would get hungrier. Until they found people, they would have to hunt for their food, probably after they found people as well – he wasn't too clear on that. He dragged out his memories of hunting with Bobby, when he and Sam were kids. He couldn't remember taking anything larger than a rabbit. It had been Bobby who taken deer; clean kills, and who'd skinned and dressed the carcasses afterwards.

He straightened up and stood, ducking his head a little as he walked out of the cave's entrance. The air was fresh and clean – really clean – he thought, he didn't remember smelling air that unpolluted before, even in the back country. The wind had dropped, but high overhead the ragged remaining clouds scudded fast, showing intermittent flashes of a pale blue sky.

The soil in front of the cave had been pounded and smoothed by the rain. He looked down, at first not registering what he was seeing. In the reddish brown clay at the mouth of the cave were tracks. Long, narrow tracks, made by no creature he'd ever seen or heard of. They might have been human, if there had been five toes, not four. And if the toes had not been evenly sized, each with a protruding claw, clearly defined in the softened dirt.

He looked around, staring at the trees, the rocks, the creek, now swollen to a small river. The tracks had come to the cave from the left, looking out. The prints milled around in front of the entrance, then headed along the narrow path to the right, disappearing over the bare rock where the earth berm ended. Dean stared at them, his face troubled.

* * *

Sam stretched out and opened his eyes. The firelight was still bright, throwing umber shadows against the walls. The ground was hard, but he was warm at least. He looked around. Castiel was still sleeping, his vessel's skin pale and tinged with grey. He couldn't see Dean. He slowly became aware of a low grumbling in his stomach. They would need food and soon.

He rolled onto his knees and stood up, being careful not to straighten out. The cave was roomy enough but didn't accommodate his full height. He walked to the cave's mouth. Dean stood just outside, still.

"Rain stopped?" Sam walked up behind his brother.

"Yeah. A couple of hours ago." Dean pointed down to the tracks. "What do you make of those?"

Sam looked down and walked to the nearest, crouching and running his fingers lightly over the indentations. "I don't know. All the weight is on the toes, and … well, I guess it would be the ball of the foot in a human, the pad in an animal."

He looked up at Dean. "Did you hear it? Or see anything last night?"

Dean shook his head. "No, nothing. I'm guessing that this might be what was following us in the forest yesterday. I thought I saw a movement in the trees on the other side, just before the rain started but between the rain and the light, I couldn't pick it up again."

Sam looked at the depth of the tracks. "Whatever it is, it's big – our size, maybe heavier."

"Awesome." He rubbed his hand over his face and glanced back into the cave. "Cas awake?"

"Still sleeping." Sam stood up. "We need to hunt."

"Yeah, I'm getting pretty hungry too," Dean agreed, pulling out the automatic and popping the magazine. Fully loaded. He replaced it and slammed it home, checking the safety before he put it back in his jacket.

"We've got twelve bullets in my piece. The demon knife. And the walking sticks I cut yesterday. Any ideas?"

"We could make traps, but it's only worthwhile if we're going hang around here for a couple of days at least." Sam looked down the river. "And we should move on, find other people as quickly as we can."

Dean touched Sam's arm lightly. Sam turned his head, following his brother's gaze. Higher up the river a large rabbit was crouched in the long grass a few feet from the water. The wind was blowing down the gully toward them. Dean eased the Colt back out of his jacket pocket. He'd need to get closer. The gun would put a big hole in the poor little bunny, but they'd get something from it, he hoped.

He walked slowly past Sam, staying close to the rock face. The rabbit's nose was twitching, its ear swivelling back and forth as it searched for danger. Dean reached the edge of the rock face. In front of him was the grassy slope that the rabbit had come down. He crouched slowly, bringing the gun up and resting the edge of his trigger hand against the palm of the other. The rabbit shuffled forward toward the water. Dean lined the notch in his sight up with the eye that he could see, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The gunfire was monstrously loud in the gully, sending a flock of birds wheeling into the sky from the trees on the other side of the river, and something larger crashing away into the forest. The rabbit's head was gone, the range too close for the big calibre bullets the gun held, but the body was intact, lying limply where it had been thrown by the impact.

Dean stood up, and walked over to it, picking it up by the hind legs. He carried it back to the cave quickly, looking over his shoulder. He had a feeling that one shot had advertised their presence over a long distance.

"Nice job." Sam grinned at him as he came back up the trail. "Do you remember how to skin it?"

"Not so much." Dean looked down at the carcass in his hands. "It'll come back. Anything else that might be edible around here?"

Sam looked along the river, and shook his head regretfully. "Not at this time of year."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

The angel woke to the smell of roasting meat. He looked around groggily. Sam sat cross-legged by the fire, trying to ensure that the rabbit was cooked evenly on both sides. Dean was scraping the flesh from the rabbit skin by the entrance with the edge of the knife.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Breakfast," Dean said, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

"Rabbit," Sam said at the same time.

Castiel looked at Dean, his brow furrowing. "I thought you were against the killing of rabbits. It was a 'Glenn Close' thing."

Dean shrugged defensively. "We didn't torture it. And there aren't any stores around, convenience or otherwise. So we have to hunt to eat."

"I think it's done." Sam lifted the stick from the forks to either side of the fire and touched the meat, hissing and pulling his fingers away as it burned them. "We'll, uh, let it cool off for a minute or two."

The smell was rich and tempting, filling their mouths with saliva and they couldn't wait too long. Although large for a rabbit, divided between the three of them it went quickly. Dean licked his fingers thoroughly and looked at his watch. It was past seven. They needed to move.

"Think you can walk, Cas?" He looked at the angel. Castiel looked up. His skin was still pale, dark stubble standing out along his jaw and around his mouth, but the grey tinge had gone. He nodded, rolling awkwardly onto his knees and getting up.

Sam covering the fire with dirt, watching it as it died. Dean rolled up the skin, fur outwards, and tucked it into his pocket. He would try and cure it, if he could find anyone to show him how. It was wasn't very large but he thought there was enough to make wrappings or crude mittens for Cas' hands. The angel was tucking them under his arms, but the trenchcoat which was a reasonable covering for a healthy angel in the US was not such a great garment for Russia in winter and his hands were red and chapped from the cold.

Following the small river down the gully, they crossed back into the forest side when the way was obstructed by rock falls, one look at the precariously balanced boulders and Cas' shivering making the decision for Dean.

* * *

The forest was predominantly oak, elm and lime, with beech and pine and some fir intermingled. The trees were a mixture of ancient, monstrous specimens, with trunks many feet in diameter, towering hundreds of feet above the forest floor, and the smaller, younger trees that had grown up when the canopy was thinner. The undergrowth consisted of bracken and yew, ferns and lichen that grew around and over the roots.

After a mile or so traversing the slope, the trail had widened out, its surface flat and even, their footfalls muffled by the thick layer of forest humus. They travelled in single file, Dean leading, his automatic in his hand; Castiel walking behind him slowly, leaning heavily on the new staff of oak that Dean had cut and shaped for him; Sam, carrying his own oak staff, bringing up the rear.

"Sam."

Dean stopped, staring at a trunk to one side of the path. Sam walked past Castiel, and looked at the sign that had been carved into the broad trunk. It was vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn't place it.

"Signpost or warning?" Dean asked, looking around them. Sam frowned. He almost had the memory but then it had gone.

"No idea." He shrugged. "Someone lives around here, though."

Dean nodded and started walking again. None of them spoke in the deep silence of the forest. The age of the trees, the dimness of the light under the interlocking canopies, the sombreness of the atmosphere made any conversation seem … unimportant.

Sam noticed that the trail they were on was gradually bearing them away from the river again. It was a well-used trail, and not just by the animals of the forest, he thought, recognising the tracks pressed into the soft ground. He mentally debated the pros and cons of remaining close to the river, or following what was obviously a path to other people. It wasn't much of a debate. They needed people. They needed shelter, information, more weapons, the possibility of trading their skills for food.

The thought raised other questions. Did they have skills they could trade? They were hunters, but it was highly likely that most of the men and women in this region would also be skilled hunters, a lot more skilled than they were in the tracking and hunting of animals. Dean was good with mechanical things, and construction, but how much use would those skills see in a society that was still primarily hunter-gatherer with a bit of agriculture thrown in? He had knowledge, that might be more valuable, if it were the kind of knowledge that these people needed. He shook his head.

Wait and see, he counselled himself. Just wait and see.

* * *

The trail wound downwards through the forest, sometimes wider, sometimes narrower, for another three hours before the trees began to thin and they could see a much lower valley spreading out in front of them. Thin winter sunshine was welcome on their faces as they crossed a grassy hillside, finding a rough two-track road running to one side of it. Dean looked down at the deep ruts on either side of a higher grassed bank. Wagon wheels, he thought in bemusement. The centre strip was pocked with the hoofprints of horses and cattle.

The valley floor was narrow, following a wide, shallow river through twists between opposing ridges. The soil was deeper here, loess over clay, supporting copses of poplar, which lined the riverbanks. The village itself consisted of several dozen houses, built close together, in some cases sharing a common wall or walls, with steeply pitched roofs from whose chimneys smoke swirled. It was walled, a timber palisade reinforced by stone columns, fourteen feet high and joining to a square stone building that had been built partly into the steeply sloping hillside, commanding a view along the long axis of the valley to the north and the south. The wall was pierced by a gate, built of thick timbers, reinforced by iron strapping. At this hour of the morning it stood open, and people were moving through it, baskets and pots, carriers and bundles on their backs as they went to collect whatever they could find to eke out their winter supplies.

Dean slowed down as they approached the village, uncomfortably aware of how conspicuous they looked in their modern clothing. The villagers wore homespun, tanned leather and furs, and they too were slowing as they watched the strangers walk along the rough track.

"This is worse than the west in 1861," Dean muttered.

"Just keep on walking," Sam said softly. "We're not that far from the Silk Road and the trading route through Turkey into western Europe; even these people will be aware that people from distant lands dress differently."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'm thinking that not even the most different has shown up in a trenchcoat."

They reached the gate. The people standing there drew back from them, some making gestures to ward off evil and averting their eyes. Within the walls, the ground was muddy and churned up, the rain of the previous nights' storm draining slowly from the heavy clay. Dean's nose wrinkled up at the mixture of scents that assailed them; greasy cooking, the sharp, acrid reek of hot metal, the damp stench of the mud, the overwhelming smell of manure from the livestock held in pens around the walls.

"A can of air freshener wouldn't go amiss right now," he muttered to himself.

From the small square at the gate, three narrow tracks led outward, to other parts of the village. Sam looked up as a group of people came from the third, steepest track. The man who led them was big, although not as tall as Dean or himself, he was significantly heavier through the shoulders and chest, the muscles of his arms massive, the bare skin of his arms and legs criss-crossed with knotted scars. Over leather leggings and vest, he wore a bearskin cloak, held at the throat by a round, intricately worked gold pin. His hair was long and black, his eyes a startling light grey, bright against the tanned skin of his face.

"_Mokharuli var, rom sop'el glubinnogo l'da. T'k'ven mogzaurobis shoridan?"_ The man's voice was deep, the words guttural and harsh-sounding.

"Cas? A little help here." Dean looked back at the man, hoping his expression conveyed friendly interest.

Castiel looked up. _"Ch'emi up'alo, ch'ven imogzaura ch'rdiloet'. Ch'ven dacherili am shtormis gamo maghali ugheltekhili da schirdeba t'k'veni stumart'moqvareoba."_

The man nodded abruptly. _"T'k'ven mivesalmebit' ak'. Ch'emi sakhli shenia."_ He turned to the gathered crowd. _"Inozemna dopomoha. Tse moi__̈__ hosti."_

The people around them nodded and began to walk away, going back to their business. The man turned to the young woman who stood beside him. _"Ch'veni sastumro aris daavadebuli. Miighet' Valenis."_

She nodded and left, moving quickly and gracefully through the mud and standing water.

He looked back to Castiel. _"Menya zovut Vasilii__̆__ . YA lider etoi__̆__ derevni, eto klan. Vy zdes' v bezopasnosti, pod moyei__̆__ zashchitoi__̆__, nikto ne budet vredit' vam ili vashim tovarishcham."_

Castiel bowed his head. _"Spasibo, Gospodi Vasilii__̆__. My v dolgu pered vamidolg blagodarnosti."_

Vasiliĭ smiled suddenly. _"YA ne gospodin, moi__̆__ drug. Nu, vy ne ochen' khorosho. U nas yest' kvalifitsirovannyi__̆__ tselitel'. Ona budet videt' vas v blizhai__̆__shyee vremya."_

He gestured at the path that led up the hill toward the stone building. Castiel walked carefully through the mud, using the staff to secure his footing on the slippery ground. Dean and Sam looked at each other and followed him.

"Cas?!" Dean hissed at the angel as they walked up the hill. "What was that all about?"

Castiel sighed. "The leader here is Vasiliĭ. He's the one I was speaking with. The dialect is Russian, so we're further north than I'd thought." He shook slightly as the climb steepened. "I told him we were travellers, in need of shelter. He has welcomed us into his house."

Sam whistled softly. "Nice going."

Dean shook his head. "I thought you said you had the language covered. It'll be too easy for us to cause offence if Sam and I don't know what's going on."

Castiel nodded. "When I can sit and rest, Dean."

The stone building was larger than it had looked from below. The door leading into it was more like a gate, bound and sheeted in iron, its enormous weight balanced on hinges that were set into the stone frame surrounding it.

"No shortage of iron around here," Sam commented.

"No. There are plenty of metals and minerals in these mountains," Castiel agreed. He hesitated before the door, waiting for Vasiliĭ to precede them. Sam glanced at him. The grey undertone had returned to his skin.

Vasiliĭ walked past them and gestured to another woman, tending the fire.

"_Voz'mite ikh v nomera. Oni nuzhdayut·sya v pishche, teple. Eto moi gosti, oni dolzhny byt' khorosho lechit·sya."_

The woman nodded quickly and gestured to them, passing through a door to the right of the great hall's hearth.

Castiel nodded and followed her, Dean and Sam trailing behind him. The room to which they were led was a large square. Light came in through a series of high, narrow slits along the south wall. The furniture was minimal, piles of skins lay over mounds of straw, a crude table, long, but low, sat in front of the hearth. The woman moved quickly to the hearth, lighting the kindling and feeding the flames as the fire became established. She turned and nodded to them, closing the door behind her as she left.

Dean helped Castiel onto one of the mounds of furs. He looked at Cas' face, his brows drawing together as he saw the tension and pain in his friend's eyes.

"What do you need, Cas?" he said quietly, laying the staff down beside the bed.

"Rest, mostly. Food, when it comes." Castiel closed his eyes briefly. "Lean close, Dean."

He raised his hand as Dean tilted a little toward him. His fingers touched the hollow at the base of the man's throat once, then the temple. He nodded slowly.

"Sam." Sam walked over and knelt beside his brother. Castiel touched his throat and temple, his chest hitching at the effort.

The door to the room opened again, and the woman returned, carrying several platters of hot food. She set them onto the low table.

"Eat. Valenis will be here soon to look after your friend," she said, her voice soft and husky. Dean looked at Sam, his brows rising, seeing his brother's identical surprise in the creasing of Sam's forehead.

"Thank you," Sam said slowly. She nodded and left the room, closing the door again.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Dean helped Castiel to sit up as Sam brought over a bowl of steaming meat and grains. There were no implements to eat the food with; Castiel dipped his fingers into the bowl and scooped out a mouthful. Dean looked down at the food. The surface of the stew held an oily glaze, the fat rendered from the chunks of the meat. The smell was delicious, a delicate aroma of herbs and spices overlaying the deeper smells of lamb and the grains and his mouth filled with saliva in anticipation.

The angel ate fast, and drank the broth from the bowl when the larger parts were gone. He closed his eyes, feeling the food heat him from the inside. Dean took the bowl back to the table and refilled it, eating quickly as the food cooled. The fire was slowly heating the room, and he could feel his eyelids drooping slightly as the combination of hot food and the warming air gave him a probably misplaced feeling of safety, of sanctuary reached.

Sam sampled each of the dishes, trying to identify the ingredients. The meat had been roasted in some, boiled in others, he thought it was lamb or goat. Of the grains, he recognised oats and barley, wheat and rye; cattails, a potato-like tuber and the roots of wild onions. He looked a plate of greens, too mushy to identify them, he reached out and tasted a leaf, his eyes widening in surprise as he recognised the taste of spinach – or a spinach-like plant, at any rate.

The door opened, and two women entered the room. The younger one was the woman that had stood beside Vasiliĭ earlier. She was small and slender, her hair black, her eyes the same startling light grey of the leader's.

_Daughter,_ Sam wondered?. The other woman was older, her smooth skin tanned and weathered from many seasons outdoors. She stood a little taller than her companion; her long hair was the colour of maple wood, thick and bound into a plait that hung down her back. She walked to the bed that Castiel lay upon, and Sam saw that her eyes were a clear, bright blue, unusual for this region. She glanced at him and then down at Castiel, laying her fingers gently on the angel's forehead.

"How long has he been like this?" she asked, her gaze on Castiel's face.

Sam looked at Dean. "About two days. It was a very hard trip over the passes."

A smile curved her lips. "Was it?" Glancing at the younger woman, she said, "Ruane, I need hot water."

When the door had closed behind Ruane, Valenis turned to look from Sam to Dean. "Now. Tell me the truth." Her gaze dropped to the angel beside her as she added, "No physical effort did this to him. He was working a great spell, wasn't he?"

Sam nodded reluctantly, hoping that working spells wasn't punishable by death in this place, this time. "Yes, he brought us here, from a long way away. He was trying to stop something terrible from happening but the … spell was … meddled with at a critical moment. When we woke up, we were at the top of the mountain," He gestured to the north. "And Cas was like this."

Valenis nodded. "He has undergone great strain, his head, his heart … he will need a lot of rest, and care, to counteract these effects." She looked at them, her eyes taking in the differences in them … the strange clothing, their smooth skin, in contrast with the rough calluses on their hands, even the way they wore their hair was markedly different from any other she'd seen … and she had travelled widely from her native home to this place.

"I have travelled from Nóregr to the deserts of the east and here, and I have never seen such as you," she told them, her voice quiet but curious. "You must come from far indeed."

Sam looked down, searching for words that might make sense to her. "From over the sea, the great sea to the west, that stretches to the horizon and beyond."

Valenis bit her lip thoughtfully as she considered what he said, then she nodded. "That is far."

Ruane returned with an iron pot of boiling water. Steam rose from it, and the handle was wrapped in several layers of fur and hide, protecting her hands from the heat. She set it down on the table, and Valenis rose, pulling several packets from the pockets of her inner garments. She opened them and tipped the contents into the boiling water, and the air was immediately scented by the strong smells of the dried herbs, the mix too complex for Sam to recognise. The wrappings were very thin flexible sheets of a near translucent material, he noticed, watching as she folded them neatly and returned to the pocket of her long skirt.

"Bring three cups, Ruane," she asked the girl quietly, and spread her hands above the pot, her lips moving soundlessly, her eyes closed over the steaming water. Sam glanced at Dean, both recognising what she was doing.

"Are you a witch?" Dean asked, a trace of unease edging his voice.

Valenis looked up, opening her eyes. "Witch? Sorcerer? No, healer." She gestured at the pot.

"These herbs promote healing, calming; they strengthen the heart and the spirit, so that the body can heal faster. The knowledge is not secret, not hidden. Most villages have healers." She looked at Dean. "Does the village where you're from not have one?"

He shook his head. "Not really. Not in the same way." He thought of trying to explain doctors and hospitals to her, never mind insurance, and decided against it.

Ruane returned to the room, holding three cups. She passed them to Valenis, who dipped each of them into the brewed tea, and passed one each to Dean and Sam.

"Drink. It's not poison, not to make you sleep. Just to strengthen you." She lifted the third cup out and knelt beside Castiel, putting her arm behind his shoulders and lifting him higher. His eyes fluttered open as the cup filled with steaming liquid touched his lips. He drank as Valenis tipped the cup, knowing what it contained, knowing his vessel needed all the help it could get.

Valenis looked into his eyes, watching the pupils contract slightly in the light.

"You need to sleep," she said softly. He managed a small nod in agreement, letting his lids drop again.

Sam swallowed the tea, surprised at the taste. It was very light, neither sweet nor tart, but somewhere in between. And it was refreshing. He looked back to the kettle.

Valenis saw the direction of his gaze. She smiled. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

He nodded sheepishly.

"Rest. You can have another cup when you wake, and make sure he gets one as well."

"Will he be all right?" Sam looked at Castiel's still frame, now tucked under the softness of a wolf pelt blanket.

"Yes. In time." She rose to her feet. "I'll come back in a few hours. Vasiliĭ will want to talk to you as well, I'm sure." She glanced at Ruane, who waited by the table. "Ruane will stay here. Ask her if you want anything."

"Thank you," Dean said, his feelings still mixed about her, but the suspicions fading away. The damned tea was good.

She smiled at him. "You must be a warrior. Only warriors are so suspicious of healers."

He turned away uncomfortably. She looked at Sam, her eyes warm and considering. "And you, I think are a scholar. You think things through before deciding."

Sam flushed. It was a partly accurate description, he supposed. She looked down at Castiel. "But I cannot guess at what your friend is. Perhaps he will tell me when he is rested."

She turned and left the room. Sam looked at Ruane.

"Do you want to sit?" He gestured to the pile of skins beside him. "You could tell us something of your … uh … village?"

She nodded shyly and walked to the skins, sinking onto them gracefully, tucking her legs beneath her.

"What do you want to know?" She looked up at him, and he noticed that her irises were a silvery grey, rimmed around with a darker grey.

* * *

Against the stone walls, the red light of sunlight stood in squares. Dean stretched out, glancing at the fire and noticing that it was low, the embers still glowing but the heat fading from the room. He moved aside the thick bearskin that covered him and rolled onto his knees, going to the pile of logs beside the wide hearth, and picking up two. A shower of sparks erupted as the first one hit the hot coals, and the first licks of flame consumed the dry wood. He placed the second log more carefully and rubbed his hands as the fire caught, the flames hot and yellow now and rising.

Sam slept under a pile of skins, his chest rising and falling slowly. On the other side of him, Castiel also slept, the firelight lending a false ruddiness to his skin. Dean rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the sharp prickle of the stubble along his jaw. He wondered how easy it was to shave with a knife blade.

There was a soft knock on the door, and he walked over to it, opening it and looking down at the woman who stood there. She was holding two bowls, with what appeared to be scraps of cloth hanging from them.

She looked back at him, her face expressionless. Her hair was a deep shade of red, like heartwood, her eyes green, like his own, paler but the irises rimmed with a darker colour.

"Valenis sent me to see how you are, if there is anything you need," she said when the silence between them had stretched out too long. "My name is Alis."

She walked past him, into the room, setting one bowl on to the table and carrying the other to far side of the room. She walked back to the hearth unhurriedly, and took a burning twig from the flames, lighting the scrap of cloth protruding from the bowl, wick, Dean realised belatedly, of the oil lamp on the table, and crossing to the other and lighting it. The light the lamps gave was a rich gold, and although the edges of the room remained in shadow, the table and the other side were bright with it.

Dean started to close the door, and stopped, opening it again as two men, carrying a large copper pot of steaming water came in. Alis gestured to the other side of the room, where the second lamp burned. Dean watched them carry the pot to the lamp, setting it down close by.

The men walked out, nodding to him as they passed. Alis followed them, stopping in the doorway and taking several broad homespun cloths from her belt. She held them out to him expectantly, and he took them, looking down at them for a moment and then back to her.

He saw the corners of her mouth tucked in slightly.

"For washing, to get clean," she explained slowly, as if to a child, gesturing broadly to the pot of hot water. Dean felt a heat rise up his face. He scowled at her.

"Yeah. All right." He started to close the door again. Alis turned and walked away, but he heard her low laugh as the door closed.

He walked to the tub, tossing the cloths over the edge. It was too small to climb into, he thought with a moment of regret. Crouching down, he noticed the simple rectangular bars beside the tub. He picked one up. Soap, he thought, feeling the slickness against his fingers. He lifted it and sniffed warily. It had been very lightly scented with a herb, but otherwise smelled like soap.

He walked back to the beds and leaned over, twitching the topmost skin over his brother. "Sammy, hey, wake up. It's bath time."

Sam opened his eyes slowly. Despite the bed's primitiveness, he felt rested and relaxed, not even a twinge from any of his muscles. The straw mats and furs were more comfortable than he could have imagined.

"What?" He looked at his brother. Dean straightened up, gesturing to the corner.

"They delivered us a tub of hot water, some soap and wash cloths. Guess it's a not so subtle hint that we stink."

Sitting up, Sam looked around, blinking in the warm light. He saw the steaming pot in the corner and shrugged, tossing back the pelts and rolling onto his feet. The lamp provided good illumination in the corner, despite being set on the floor. He looked back at Dean, forehead crinkling up.

Another knock on the door saved them from having to discuss who was going first. Dean opened it. Ruane held a bundle of clothes in her arms. Alis stood behind her with another bundle.

"Do you want to wash your … clothes?" Ruane asked, walking past him into the room. "You will be more comfortable in clean clothing, yes?"

Dean looked at Sam. "Uh … yeah, sure."

Alis walked past him without looking at him and put her bundle on the end of the low table, away from the lamp. Ruane followed her and deposited the second bundle beside the first. The two women turned to face the brothers, waiting.

Sam felt his ears turning red as he realised that they were waiting for their clothing. "Um … yeah. We can wash these ourselves, there's no need for you to do it."

Dean looked from his brother to the women, catching up. "Yeah, we're used to doing it. We'll be fine."

Alis looked at Ruane, her lips pressed tightly together. "I think they would prefer to be without our help."

"It seems that way," Ruane agreed demurely. "We'll leave you, then."

Dean smiled uncomfortably as they walked past him again. He shut the door, looking for some means to lock it. The door fit smoothly into the frame, but was without any kind of lock.

Sam walked to the tub and started to strip down, as fast as he could. He dunked the cloth into the hot water and lathered the soap, his back to his brother.

"So, uh, we can wash our stuff in this after we've finished," he suggested, his voice muffled behind the cloth.

"Why not," Dean agreed with a snort.

He walked to the table, picking up the clothing from the pile. The homespun shirt was soft, and light. The pants were of goatskin leather, soft and pliable, expertly tanned. And they weren't shiny, more of a matt mottled grey and brown. He let out a long exhale. Fancy dress was still fancy dress.

Turning to glance at his brother, he decided he was looking forward to seeing what they'd come up with for Sam, who stood almost a foot above everyone they'd met.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

"You are better?" Vasiliĭ asked Castiel solicitously as the angel walked slowly into the hall, stopping and leaning on the edge of a table. "Valenis was able to help?"

"Yes. Thank you." Castiel looked around the big room curiously. "The tea was strengthening. She tells me I need to rest as much as I can."

"Yes, sleep is the key to recovery, when the head and the heart are involved." The leader nodded sagely. "She healed me, after a battle. Pulled the axe out of my head and got me back on my feet."

Castiel looked at him, blinking at the mental image. "I am glad that you have such a good healer here."

Vasiliĭ looked around the people sitting, eating, drinking in his hall. "I have good people here. We might not be here much longer though."

He turned back to Castiel, gesturing the table at the head of the room and following the angel as he made his way to it. "What news have you of the invasions to the south?"

Castiel inclined his head, trying to remember this period, who had been invading whom.

"You mean the Xiongnu nomads?" He frowned, thinking that they had come a bit later as an invading power. The chieftain sat down next to him and shook his head.

"No, the cursed Scythians. They have been attacking this year. Two years now the harvests have failed in the lower mountains, near the sea. It started then, but the attacks are becoming more frequent this year. Not even the long winter has stopped them." Vasiliĭ picked up a leg of roast fowl, ripping the flesh away with his teeth as he took his fury out on the food.

Castiel wondered about that. It wasn't in his experience of history, and he'd spent a thousand years not too distant from here, watching the rise and fall of civilisations surrounding the Mediterranean and Black Seas. Had they changed something, being thrust from the future into this time?

"It is impolite of me to show my anger at the table. I apologise, Casteel." Vasiliĭ lowered his gaze, ashamed of his outburst in front of a guest.

"No need, Vasiliĭ. I am neither offended nor upset. I am sorry, we've come from the north and there have no news of attacks in the south." Castiel hastened to smooth over any ill feeling. He picked up his glass and sipped the warm, spiced wine. To his surprise, it was very palatable and when the leader passed him a basket of thick wedges of bread, he took one, spreading the soft cheese over it.

* * *

Dean sat opposite Sam, at a table further down the hall. The plain homespun shirt was comfortable against his skin, the leather vest a little tight over the shoulders, a little short in the torso. The pants were comfortable but on the short side. The soft leather boots that went over them covered the gap, fortunately.

Sam wasn't so lucky. Although Ruane had brought the biggest clothes she could find, almost everything was tight, and too short for his limbs. He noticed that in spite of that, Sam was getting a lot of attention from the women in the hall.

Beside him, Alis leaned close and whispered in his ear. "They are wondering if your brother is as big below the belt as he is above."

He looked at her, one brow rising. "Really? I thought he'd scare people."

She laughed, a throaty and infectious laugh that hummed through him. "He might scare the men, but not the women."

Turning away from him, she looked at a group of girls, younger than herself, but counted as women by the village. "They think you are very interesting too."

Dean followed her glance, seeing the group of girls at a table on the other side of the big room. They all looked to be on the wrong side of sixteen, and were staring at him and talking to each other. He looked away. "A bit young for me."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what is your preferred age for a woman?"

He glanced at her, wondering at her sudden interest. "Older than them, younger than …" He looked around, and saw a matronly woman dishing out food to a group of children. "… that lady over there."

"That's a wide field." She smiled at him. "Are you a warrior? In your homeland?"

He frowned. It was a dramatic sort of word, not one he could envisage in connection with himself, really. "Sort of. I guess."

"You don't know?"

"Yes, yeah, I am." He gave up trying to make the finer distinctions. The concepts of a hunter, separate to everyday life, didn't exist here. Everyone was a hunter. What he and Sam did - had done - would do in the future - had been more like soldiering anyway.

"What do you do?" he asked her suddenly, wanting to find a topic that was safe – safer.

"I work with my father." She looked around and pointed to him, a huge man with deeply tanned skin, arms like hams, sitting next to the healer woman, Valenis, at a table close by the roaring hearth. "And sometimes with my mother."

Dean looked over at them. "Valenis is your mother?"

She nodded. "She wants me to follow her, to become a healer. But I think I'm better at making weapons." Her smile faded away. "And using them," she added under her breath.

"Your father works with metal? Like a blacksmith?" Dean tried to remember the term for someone who made weaponry.

"Yes, he makes the wheels, the pots, everything to do with metal. Including the swords, spears, arrowheads and shields for our own warriors."

* * *

Sam was aware of the looks and whispered conversations and giggles from the women in the hall. Ruane had been very frank about it when they'd entered. He sat next to the leader's daughter, facing his brother and Alis, his back to the rest of the room, feeling the back of his neck and his ears burning.

"What does Alis do?" he asked Ruane, taking another bread roll from the basket between them, and spreading the soft goat's cheese over it.

"She is a hunter, like you." Ruane sipped her wine and watched the man beside her. She had told him about the other women to increase his pride, maybe make him laugh. It had not worked. He was stiff and tense, and although the combination of oil lamps and firelight made it difficult to be sure, she thought that he might be embarrassed by their attentions.

He wasn't like any other man in the village, or in the nearby villages she visited sometimes with her father. He was soft-spoken and courteous, and he seemed older than the skin of his face and hands suggested. Valenis had called him a scholar. The healer was never wrong about people.

"How old are you?" she asked him.

"Twenty-seven." He took a bite of the bread, savouring it. He'd thought that they might not be able to have bread here, at least not beyond the flatbreads that'd been around for thousands of years, but clearly the culture was established. The roll was heavier than modern loaves, but soft and delicious.

He became aware that she was staring at him in shock. "What?"

"You are twenty-seven?" She looked at her father. This was his thirty-fifth year. He was only eight years older than the man beside her. Sam looked from her to her father and back.

"Yeah." He wondered suddenly if he'd made a mistake. "What's wrong with that?"

She shook her head, looking down at her glass. "I thought you were younger."

Sam frowned at the implication. "Where I come from, people live to great ages, and I am considered young."

"Oh." Ruane looked up at him again. "Do you have a wife? Children? In your … village?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Are you … have you taken a vow? Or … are you …" Ruane hesitated, worried about giving offence, "ah … do you prefer … men?"

"No." Sam shook his head, putting the roll back on the table. "No. Uh, no. I … uh … had a wife," he apologised mentally to Jess. "She was killed."

"I'm so sorry." Ruane turned her head away. It explained the sadness at the back of his eyes, she thought.

"It was a long time ago, but I loved her very much." He looked down at the plate.

Ruane nodded, her gaze on her plate.

* * *

Dean looked across the table at his brother. Sam looked uncomfortable, and not entirely due to the ill-fit of his clothing or the persistent giggles from across the hall. He glanced at Ruane. She seemed uncomfortable as well, and he wondered what they'd been talking about to make them both look as if they wished they were elsewhere.

He stretched slightly, his stomach full of meat and bread and wine. He suddenly remembered the tracks they'd seen outside of the cave and turned to Alis.

"We saw tracks that we haven't seen before, higher in the mountains."

She looked at him, her attention caught. "What did they look like?"

He thought about the spoor. "Two-legged, a long, narrow foot but with four toes, not five. And claws extending from each toe."

She nodded. "Werewolf."

He raised an eyebrow, wondering if he understood her correctly. "Four toes, not five," he repeated.

She looked at him. "Yes. After the transformation one of the toes is … absorbed … back into the body."

"Transformation?" He looked at her. "In my ti–," he corrected himself quickly, "land, the werewolf transformation is mainly mental, not physical."

"Really?" Alis looked at him thoughtfully. "That's strange. Here the transformation is complete. The man becomes a wolf, although he often walks upright, he can run on all fours as a wolf does. The bones … change, melt, almost …" She thought of the last one she'd seen and shrugged. "It looks more like a wolf than a man."

"Huh." He considered that. Another thought struck him. "So what other kinds of monsters are around here? That you've hunted?"

"Ah … vampyre, of course, there's a nest to the east but we've never had enough men to go and clean it out and they come in the summer, when there are more likely to be travellers in the woods. Werewolf. My father said there were giants and trolls in these mountains less than thirty years ago, although I've never seen one myself." She thought about the creatures that populated the area, those she'd hunted personally, and those she'd heard about.

"Whisperers, wyverns. My uncle slew a dragon near his village to the south five years ago, but we haven't seen any since then," she continued, pursing her lips as she remembered the tales of others. "There was a black sorcerer far to the north, I don't know if he still lives. He raised a lot of things, monsters that people say are still around that area, caused a lot of trouble."

At his silence, she looked back at him, taking in his somewhat blank expression. "Don't you have monsters like those in your homeland?"

Exhaling loudly, Dean shook his head. "Some, not quite that much variety. What are whisperers?"

"Undead creatures, they drink the life force of people who are called to them. They can take human form, and they can see into your mind, see the memories of loved ones, of family. They can take the voice of a person and make you think that they are there, that they need your help. Silver or iron kills them, if it is thrust through the joint where the neck joins the spine." She reached out and touched him lightly on the large vertebrae.

Crocottas, he thought, same tune, different title. "And wyverns?"

"They are reptiles, but warm-blooded like their larger cousins, dragons. A bit easier to kill, although they spit acid, rather than breathing fire."

"Dragons really breathe fire?" He looked across at Sam, hoping he was hearing this, but his brother was looking away, talking to Ruane.

"Of course, what did you think?" She picked up her cup and drank the wine. "It's a little tricky to kill a dragon. It takes two, at least, a decoy and the swordsman. They have a powerful magic, so you can't look into their eyes, or listen to what they say to you."

Magical dragons, possibility of giants and trolls – _what the hell was a troll?_ – plus the usual round of suspects, he thought, that's great. He revised the odds of their survival until Cas recovered down drastically.

"It is good that you saw the tracks of the werewolf," Alis said slowly. "It was a full moon last night, and the night before. Tonight is the last chance to kill the werewolf until the moon is full again. Will you come with us?" She looked at him expectantly. "You're a hunter, yes?"

"Uh, yeah." He looked at Sam. "Sam, they're hunting a werewolf tonight. We should go with them."

Sam looked from his brother to Alis and back. "Right. Tonight."

Dean kept his face expressionless. "Apparently, werewolves fully transform here."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Into a wolf?"

Dean nodded. "That's what made the tracks outside of the cave."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "So a wolf that walks on two legs."

"Not always," Alis interjected. "But yes, sometimes."

"Silver to the heart, right?" Dean looked at her.

"Yes, we have plenty of arrows if you need some."

His face fell. Bows and arrows. That would be fun. His father had trained him and Sam in archery when they were young, believing that they should have an understanding of all the weaponry they might need, but it had been a good fifteen years since he'd last picked up a bow. The bullets in the auto were ordinary steel-jacket, and would be more likely to piss off a werewolf than do any damage.

Sam followed his thoughts. "If we can talk to Alis' father about finding lead and casting it, or silver for that matter, we can probably make something that works. The recipe for gunpowder is pretty simple."

"Better do that then, tomorrow. For tonight we'd better hope that we still remember how to shoot with a bow."

Sam nodded, pushing his cleaned plate aside.

Beside him, Ruane looked at his profile. A scholar who was also a hunter. This man got more interesting the longer he was around.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

The moon was still round and huge as it rose through the clear skies in the east. Dean stood beside Alis outside the gates of the village wall, the bow strung and ready in his hand, a soft leather quiver full of silver-headed arrows slung over his shoulder and chest.

Sam held his own bow and quiver, shivering slightly in the freezing night air. He wore a roughly sewn wolfskin vest, but it didn't quite meet across his chest, and he'd had to leave the front open. The village weaver, Guin, had promised to make him more clothing as soon as possible, looking at the gap between the bottom of the pants and his boots, and between the length of the sleeve and his hands.

Vasiliĭ looked around at the men and women surrounding him. They were twelve tonight and he had already decided that they should split into smaller parties, to take each direction from the village. Dean's confirmation of the tracks in the gully holding the creek would be their starting point. The werewolf had to be a man too, for three weeks of the month he was a farmer, or a hunter, or maybe from a village nearby. It didn't matter. Tonight they would have a chance to stop it, to kill it, before it could turn others against their kin.

Sam was teamed with Rascha and Lyre. They were experienced hunters. Rascha had grown up further to the south, his village in the lower ranges, close to Armenia. His dialect was different, but Sam found he could understand him perfectly, the angel's translation whammy working on every language, he hoped. Lyre was a couple of years older than Ruane, a small wiry woman, with dark brown hair, bound tightly in a doubled over plait, and clear, pale brown eyes. She had not been born here either, but her village was only a few miles away.

Dean was going out with Alis and Elbek, the two hunters looking relaxed and at ease, his brother standing with them not so much, Sam thought. That had more to do with working with strangers than what they were hunting, though.

He looked around at the faces of the hunters, seeing calm expressions, attention to detail, particularly of their weapons; strong faces, strong bodies and smiled to himself. Hunters were hunters, wherever they were and in whatever time.

They walked out of the valley in single file, splitting up where the forest trail came out into the meadow. The moonlight was bright and bled the colour from the landscape, creating the look of a stark black and white photograph.

* * *

Dean was a little uneasy at being parted from Sam, although he found himself trusting the hunters with his brother. He just didn't like not having Sam's back. But Vasiliĭ had put the two strangers with those who knew the land, to minimise the danger to them, so he couldn't change things around now.

"You've hunted the werewolf before, yes?" Elbek came to stand beside him, as Alis stopped, casting along the trailheads for tracks. Both men studied the darkness of the forest.

"Yeah," Dean said, lifting a shoulder in a one-sided shrug. "Once or twice."

Elbek gave him a wide grin. "We watch out for each other, the bite is very bad, it will turn you even if the wolf is killed."

Dean nodded. He knew that from bitter experience.

Alis turned to look at them, nodding as she strode onto the trail, Dean and Elbek following her closely. They entered the trees as the moon reached its zenith above them. The forest had been intimidating during the day; now, Dean found the press of the woods ominous, the darkness under the thick branches was unevenly dappled with thin beams of moonlight only where it managed to penetrate. The forest was alive with sound, with rustles and scratches, the creak of branches and the scurryings of the small nocturnal inhabitants. He found himself thinking of the list of creatures Alis had recited earlier. He hadn't believed in dragons or wyverns or trolls then, but walking over the thick carpeting of humus, he found his imagination was all too ready to conjure them up, hiding behind the great boles of the trees that stretched away to either side of the narrow path they were walking.

* * *

Sam followed Lyre north-east along a game trail, Rascha had point. He walked partially sideways, watching behind them as well as to the sides, every sense on high alert as they walked in the darkness. His eyes had adjusted well, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that his two companions could see much better than he could in the black shadows.

They'd been walking for nearly a half hour, along the game trails, and Sam had lost all sense of direction when they heard the ululation. The eerie call rose and fell, clear in one moment, muffled or distorted in the next. Much further away a pack of wolves answered the call with their music. The werewolf's howl rose again, and this time, Sam thought he could pinpoint the direction. He stepped closer to Lyre, and pointed to the west. She nodded.

They turned off the trail they were using, finding a narrower path that led west, deeper into the forest.

* * *

Dean stopped as the howl echoed down the valley. He and Alis turned together, and Elbek led them to a rocky path that would take them southwest, toward the sound. He could feel his heart accelerating, his nerves prickling as they picked their way across an open clearing, the moonlight casting black shadows under the rocky outcroppings. He reached back, taking an arrow from the quiver and nocking it onto the string, his fingers curled around arrow shaft and bow as he kept walking. The trail led back into the forest, and he closed his eyes briefly, trying to get them to adjust to the blackness more swiftly.

Elbek slowed as they reached a branching in the narrow path, much deeper within the forest. He stopped and listened, turning his head slightly from one side to the other. Dean did not have to be told that the sudden silence in the forest could only mean one thing. He turned slightly, aware of Alis at his back, turning the other way, their eyes wide as they searched the darkness for any sign of movement, their ears straining to hear any sound. He shallowed his breathing and stood completely still. The only sound he could hear was the beat of his heart, thudding in his ears.

The creature came out of the darkness between two trees like a bullet. Dean caught a confused glimpse of glowing eyes, and long canine fangs as he threw himself to the side, sweeping up the bow and drawing the arrow as he fell, the draw cramped but the arrow flying true, burying itself in the ribs of the wolf, behind the shoulder.

Elbek had had more warning, and his arrow penetrated the chest as Alis spun around and fired into its throat. The savage snarling of the beast as the arrowheads worked their way deeper into the flesh ceased as Alis' second shot punched through the heart.

Dean was on his feet, a second arrow nocked, as the werewolf stilled. He looked down at it in bemusement, seeing the long, deformed body begin its transformation back to human, the bones twisting and shrinking, the thick pelt falling from the pores, the long canine snout receding into the skull, becoming a human nose and jaw again. This was the stuff of the stories and the movies, alright, he thought. The eyes were half-open, and he knelt beside the head, his thumb lifting an eyelid. The lambent glow was almost gone, the irises changing back from the yellowish green to a dark brown, as the eyeballs glazed over in death.

They heard crashing through the trees to the south, and all three brought up their bows fluidly, arrows drawn back, ready to fly.

"It's us," Rascha's deep voice called from the shadows, and Dean noticed that although Alis and Elbek lowered the bows slightly, they kept them nocked and drawn, until Rascha, Lyre and Sam picked their way out of the undergrowth and stood on the trail.

"Who was it?" Lyre stepped forward, looking down at the body of the man. "Does anyone recognise him?"

Elbek shook his head. "There was some talk of a traveller, last year. Passed through Tolan's village. They didn't see him again, but didn't think anything of it; travellers don't usually come back anyway." He looked down at the body at his feet. "They said the man was from the far south, the desert-lands. Could have been him."

Sam looked down at the body on the trail. The man's skin was tanned, but dark underneath the tan as well, his hair long and black and straight. His eyes were deep-set, almost hooded, under strong black brows, his nose had the characteristic curve of the desert people. Alis nodded.

"At least we won't have to tell anyone from here that their father or brother or husband is dead," she said quietly, and turned away, pulling a long horn from beneath her cloak. Taking a deep breath, she put the narrow end to her lips and blew, the drawn-out, mournful note rising high at the end of her breath, above the forest, into the night.

From the north and east, answering notes sounded, and she replaced the horn on her belt. She turned back to the body and pulled out her arrows, bracing her foot against the chest to free the sharp, barbed arrowheads. Dean watched her, feeling his stomach turn slightly as he noted her matter of fact approach. Then he considered the reality. Arrowheads, especially those made of silver, took time and skill to make. Retrieving them was the only option. He stepped toward the body, sliding his hand down the shaft of his own arrow and gripping it tightly just above the entry point. Pulling hard, he felt the barbed head catching on the organs and flesh under the skin, his lips compressing as he exerted more strength and finally got it free of the body. He could feel sweat beading his upper lip, and he turned away, swallowing, as he wiped the arrowhead free of blood before he returned it to the quiver.

They followed another game trail down the mountain, pausing at a small stream to drink, then continuing on to the meadow. Vasiliĭ and the others were waiting for them in the moonlit pasture. Dean stood beside Sam as Elbek recounted the killing of the werewolf, half-listening to the account, his thoughts revolving around what exactly they were in for here.

Monsters, and lots of them apparently. And not just the ones they were used to, knew how to deal with. Limited ammunition and a steep learning curve ahead on using the weapons that were available. He'd been glad that the training had held, despite years not using it, but it hadn't escaped him that it took him twice as long to aim and fire and get another arrow onto the string as it had Elbek and Alis. Nor that his ability to hunt in the woods had depended on their knowledge, their experience. He could hold up his end – just – but they were better hunters than he and Sam were and catch up would be hell.

Remembering what Sam had said earlier, he felt a slight in his spirits. If they could build a press, and make bullets, it would make a huge difference to their usefulness. A gun was faster than a bow and arrow, and a single bullet, made of silver, could have taken that werewolf right down in a fraction of the time it had taken the three of them to do so with the arrows. He frowned slightly, wondering what he'd need, if Alis' father would have the tools and materials. The calibration would be a bitch. He didn't think these people habitually thought of measurements under an inch. But he could get around that.

The hunters were moving, and he followed them, his mind considering the problem of making bullets, and maybe guns – not autos but a revolver should be within his skill levels, or a bolt-action rifle.

Sam glanced at his brother, head bowed in thought, brows drawn together. He could guess what Dean was thinking about readily enough. Guns wouldn't be around for another thousand years at the earliest, more like twelve hundred, he thought. It would give them – and the villagers – a big advantage if they could recreate them now.

* * *

The gates stood closed and barred when they reached the village, but several men stood on the palisade and the sounds of the bars rising inside started as they walked toward the gates. Flaming torches lit the wall and there were two fires set on either side of the gates on the ground outside it. Dean and Sam noticed that the night watch all wore some type of armour, the thigh-length hauberk, made from iron wire, or thickened, hardened leather, reinforced by iron plate over the sword arm and around the torso, and all kept their swords in their hands.

Times were harsh – _are_ harsh, Sam thought. Despite that there was a lot of laughter and love between the members of the community. Perhaps that was a necessary part of living in a time when death lurked so near to everyone. Petty fights and trivial envy didn't seem to be a part of their daily lives.

The long hall was still lit, the fires burning steadily and several tables set out with bowls of stew and platters of flatbread. The hunters shed their weapons near the door and sat down at the tables, eating the food quickly. Dean looked up and saw Valenis standing to one side of the doorway that led to their room. He finished his mouthful and stood, walking over to her.

"Judging from my daughter's satisfied expression, you found and killed the werewolf," she said to him as he neared. He glanced back to the table and saw Alis laughing, Elbek leaning close to her. He looked back to Valenis and smiled.

"Yeah, she got the heart shot." He looked down the hallway next to her. "How's Cas?"

"He is better. Stronger." She looked at him. "He will recover."

"Good." He looked down for a moment, then back to her. "He's my friend."

She nodded and smiled. "I know."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Sam stretched out on the bed of soft furs, feeling unaccustomed aches in his muscles from the long walk of the previous evening. He'd thought he and his brother were fit, and they were by modern standards, he supposed, just not by the standards of the hunters they'd followed last night.

In a world where even horses were a luxury, where most people got around, over vast distances, on their own two feet, he and Dean were pampered. The thought brought a wry smile to his face.

It faded a moment later as he turned his mind to the knotty problem of making bullets, even casting lead shot, in a world that wouldn't have accurate measuring devices for at least another thousand years, and realistically more like two. The guns they had were both automatics, 9mm and although robust, were likely to be reasonably choosy about the diameter of the bullets they fired, no matter how they were made. He thought that, for the moment at least, it would be quicker to regain their skills with the bow than to fool around with bullet making. Dean was going to be disappointed.

If he remembered correctly there was a commercially viable lead/silver deposit in the Caucasus Mountains, somewhere south of where they were now. But he'd need help from Alis' father and Vasiliĭ to be sure. Lead was easy to extract from the raw ore. And it was usually found with silver and copper, which would help with discovering its location.

He rolled over and stood up. The homespun shirt he wore had already been torn at the sleeves and across the chest from ill-advised movements beyond what the material could cope with. He hoped that Guin would be quick at coming up with replacements. The clothing was comfortable, at least, the yarn woven tightly with a lot of stretch to it, and the leather tanned beautifully, soft and well-worked.

The fire had died down through the night and he walked over to the heap of logs beside the hearth to add a few more pieces, stirring the coals as he dropped them on top. Taking the cool iron pot from the table, he hung it carefully above the flames; Valenis had said that Cas needed several cups a day and drinking it hot was more pleasant than when it was cold.

He looked down at the angel, still sleeping deeply in his nest of furs and woven blankets. He did look better, stronger. The grey undertone had gone completely from his skin, and his eyes were clear again, no longer bloodshot as they'd been when they'd arrived. He had a feeling that Cas hadn't told them exactly how badly he'd been injured. Valenis' concern was real, and she wouldn't let the angel out of bed for more than an hour or so a day. He wondered how long it would be before they could make the attempt to get home.

* * *

Dean woke an hour later, looking around the room groggily. Cas was still a lump in the middle of his fur bed, but Sam had gone. He stretched and grimaced as the stiffness of his muscles reminded him of hiking up the mountains and through the forest and pulling a fifty-pound draw from ground level. He shook his head slightly.

He rolled onto his side, yawning widely. The fire had been re-laid and the iron pot of Valenis' tea was hanging to one side, close enough to the flames to keep it warm, but not so close that it would boil. Sam had obviously been up for a bit.

Throwing back the skins, he got to his feet and took a cup from the table, dipping it into the deep brown tea in the pot. Despite his initial misgivings about it, it was a pleasant tasting tea, and seemed to have the restorative properties of coffee, without the after effects. He stripped off his clothing and broke the thin scrim of ice in the large washing tub, washing his face and upper body in the icy cold water, rubbing himself dry quickly and pulling the homespun shirt and soft leather pants back on. Spring came slowly to the mountains and the night temperatures were always below freezing.

The door opened slowly and Sam came in, carrying a couple of bowls of steaming porridge to the table. Behind him, Ruane carried two more, laid along her arm, and a jug of steaming liquid.

"Feeling stiff?" Sam grinned at him. Dean grimaced.

"Makes you realise we spend too much time in the car," he agreed, walking over to the table. "Breakfast?"

"Porridge." Sam nodded. Ruane seated herself at the table, and Sam sat beside her. Dean looked over at Cas again.

"Do we wake him?"

Ruane shook her head. "Valenis will be here soon, she wants to see him before she starts her work."

"Alis' father's a blacksmith?" Sam asked, picking up his bowl and looking at Ruane. The young woman nodded, seating herself cross-legged on the other side of the table from him.

"We'd like to see him, if that's possible," Sam said.

"About the weapons?" Ruane asked.

"Yeah, we, uh, got some ideas," Sam told her, glancing at his brother.

Dean settled himself at the table and began to eat. He thought longingly of bacon and eggs and hash browns and coffee and sausage, but ate the porridge anyway. He was always slightly hungry here.

Valenis came in a few minutes later, and picked up the fourth bowl, taking it to Castiel. She settled herself on the furs beside him and woke him gently, their murmured conversation too low for the others to hear.

* * *

They found Alis at her father's workshop, sitting in front of a round stone grinding wheel, sharpening the edge of a sword. Sam watched for a moment as she worked the treadle with her foot, spinning the stone slowly around as the blade rested against it, pouring a drizzle of oil over the stone and the metal as the edge was honed evenly and slowly along its length.

"Is your father here, Alis?" he asked finally. She looked up and nodded, tipping her head toward the interior of the workshop. Sam walked in, ducking under the low overhanging roof. Ruane wrinkled her nose at the acrid stench from the inside, and remained outside.

"You need some practice." Alis looked up at Dean with a mocking smile. "Your aim is good but very slow reactions."

Dean bristled. His reactions were fast – with a gun – he wanted to retort, but he realised the futility of that argument as soon as he'd thought of it. His lips compressed and he nodded reluctantly.

"It's been a long time since I used a bow," he agreed sourly. Her eyebrows shot up and she lifted the blade from the stone, testing the keenness of the edge against the ball of her thumb.

"You're better with a sword?" She tossed the weapon at him, hilt first. He grabbed it from the air, more by instinct than skill, swearing at her softly under his breath as he thanked whoever was watching out for him that he still had all his fingers.

She watched him hold the sword, feeling its weight in his wrist and forearm, its balance and getting some sense of the length, the extension of his arm.

She sighed. "Not really, then."

He looked up at her, mouth opening in protest and closing again when he saw the laughter in her eyes.

"So what kind of warrior are you, Dean W'chstr?" Ruane looked at him curiously.

"We have different weapons at home," he said awkwardly, hoping they wouldn't ask him to explain – or worse, demonstrate.

"Bow, sword, shield, spear, knife …" Alis stood up, letting the wheel slow to a stop. "Which are you good with?"

It was just a question but Dean could feel the small barb behind it. There was no doubt in his mind that she was trying to rile him.

"Gun, rifle, grenade, bomb," he answered her shortly, knowing there was no translation in the language they spoke and he might as well have spoken gobbledy gook.

The young women looked at each other.

"What are they?" Ruane asked. He sighed and shrugged, taking the sword blade gingerly and extending the hilt back to Alis.

"They're weapons, but they … there's nothing like them here."

Alis took the sword and swung the blade around smoothly, her wrist controlling the turn and speed. The metal hissed as it cleaved the air, and Dean took another step back warily.

Sam and Torgva, Alis' father came out of the heat of the forge, Sam dripping with sweat from standing inside by the fire.

He turned to Dean and nodded. "Torgva says that he knows where the lead is. They mine the ore for the silver, and the lead is used for weights and … some kind of long range weapon. Not sure what it is."

"That's a start. Can we make the molds, using the bullets we have?"

Sam shrugged. "Probably. It'll take a bit of time to get the sizes right, because ours are jacketed and the ones we could make won't be; and we'll probably have to do a bit of filing afterward."

"Better than going without, right?" Dean looked up at the tone in Sam's voice. A hint of resignation, defeat?

"It'll be quicker to retrain using the weapons they have here, than to make them, Dean," he said quietly. "For bigger weapons, we've got a better chance, but without a micrometer and other tools, we wouldn't be able to make them accurate enough to do the job better than the arrows."

Dean's shoulders slumped. "All right. So we brush up on prehistoric weaponry 101." He was careful not to look at Alis as he said it.

Sam walked over to him, his voice lowering as he said, "Cas didn't tell us how much the trip cost, Dean. We could be here for a while."

Dean looked at him. "How long is a while?"

"Months, maybe a year if Valenis is right about the recovery."

"Great." Dean looked away, rubbing his hand over his jaw as he thought through the implications of that. He looked back at Sam.

"So, what do we do?"

"Get better at hunting, I guess." He sighed. "Keep our heads down, stay alive."

Torgva, Alis and Ruane watched their conversation. Most of what they were saying was incomprehensible, despite the words being translated correctly. They looked at each other.

Sam turned back to Torgva and nodded. "I'll talk to Vasiliĭ about finding some of the ore."

The huge man shrugged. "You can talk till you're blue in the face, Vasiliĭ will not send anyone with you until the fields have been turned and planted."

Dean's gusty exhale could be heard across the square. "Awesome."

Alis handed the sword to her father. He looked down the blade, holding it to the light and nodding, pleased with it.

"Like I said, Dean –" Sam started to say, when a shout came from the palisade above them.

"The fire! The fire is lit at Chernaya Dolina!" The guard pointed to the south. "The fire has been lit at Black Valley!"

Immediately Torgva turned back to the forge, Alis at his heels. Ruane turned and ran up the steep path to her father's house. Sam stared after her then looked at Dean.

"Fire?" Dean turned to the rough wooden ladder that gave access to the palisade wall. He started to climb, looking around as he reached the top. He climbed onto the inner ledge that lined the wall and walked to the guard.

"What fire?"

"The beacon fire," Sam said softly from behind him. "A warning fire."

The guard nodded, pointing to the south again. They could see the pinpoint of gold even against the pale sky, and as it grew, the smoke thickened, becoming black.

"They are under attack," the guard said, "We must send help."

Dean looked from him to Sam. "What's he talking about?"

"Long distance communication." Sam looked at his brother. "No phones here, remember? If the villages have an agreement to help each other in time of attack or whatever, they can light the fire and the others will see it, and come to help."

Down in the square, the village men and some of the younger women were gathering, more running in from the fields and down the valley path from the forests as the word spread. Below them, Torgva and Alis carried bundles of armour and weapons, dropping them in the square and returning to the forge to get more. Dean watched as the men put them on, chain mail and crude plate of beaten metal and stiffened leather, belting swords over hauberks and heavy leather coats, picking up halberds and shields, spears and bows and bundles of arrows.

"Come on." Sam started down the ladder, looking back at his brother briefly. "This is going to be our fight too."

Looking back to the fire burning on the mountaintop, Dean noted that it was in a straight line to them, but guaranteed to be several days walking, if not more. He turned and started down the ladder.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

Sam ran up the path, dodging those coming down. He could hear Dean pounding over the churned up ground behind him. He ran through the big doors as Vasiliĭ came out, nodding to the leader as he passed him, but continuing inside.

In their room, Guin sat beside Castiel, the angel propped up against a woven basket. Her wheat-blonde hair and pale skin were not common here, but her eyes were a soft sherry-brown, surrounded by darker lashes, hinting at one parent having been born in this region, at least. Both looked up as Sam and Dean entered.

"We heard," Guin said quietly, getting to her feet and walking quickly to the table. "These are the new clothes, Sam. They should fit properly."

Sam nodded and stripped down, unconcerned about the woman standing next to him, the urgency of the situation wiping out whatever embarrassment he might have felt. He looked at Castiel.

"Cas, do you know what this is about?"

"Vasiliĭ said something, last night, about attacks on villages and towns to the south." He hesitated, glancing at Guin, "When I was … stationed … in … uh … Mesopotamia, there were some invasive forces from the east, but nothing like this. Vasiliĭ believes it is the Scythians –" He caught Dean's blank look and took a breath, "– a nomadic people from the steppes between Russia and Asia, but … in your history … they invaded to the east and the south, not this way."

Sam frowned, pulling on the leather trousers, and threading the laces through hurriedly, wrapping the long belt twice around his waist before he slid it through the clasp. "So this doesn't match up with ... your, uh …" He glanced at Guin. "Um … past memories of this … time?"

Castiel shook his head. "No. I am concerned … I think something might have changed when we were pushed here."

Dean frowned. "Something like what?"

"I don't know."

Dean looked at Castiel. "You alright?"

Castiel nodded, looking from one to the other. "You're going to fight?"

Dean shrugged, his eyes flicking to his brother. "We have to."

"You have no experience in this kind of fighting, Dean," Castiel said quietly.

"We know how to stay alive in a fight, Cas," Sam said, picking up the sleeveless surcoat Guin had made for him from a bearskin and pulling it on. "That'll have to be enough."

Dean flashed the angel a confident smile. "Hey, it's us. We'll be fine."

Castiel restrained himself from rolling his eyes. It was a habit he'd picked up from Dean.

"How long does it take to get to Black Valley, Guin?" Sam turned and asked her.

"Four days walking," she said, stepping close to him and adjusting the wide leather belt that held the edges of the coat together.

"We'll see you soon, Cas." Dean looked at Guin. "Take care of him."

She smiled suddenly, a wide smile that lit her eyes. "I will."

Behind her, Castiel made a sound. It was hard to tell if it was a snort or a cough.

* * *

Vasiliĭ looked around at the men and women surrounding him. He couldn't leave the village undefended. He gestured to Torgva, shaking his head as the blacksmith protested. Between them they chose twenty men and women who would stay, and keep watch while they went.

Alis stood beside her father, a small smile playing on her lips as she adjusted the heavy mail hauberk she wore. An oval shield, with a point at one end, hung over her shoulder by a broad leather strap. The sword belted around her waist was shorter than the one she'd been sharpening earlier. Her bow, unstrung now, held by thin leather straps, hung across her back, the quiver beside it packed full of iron-tipped arrows.

Dean looked at her as he and Sam walked into the square, going to the remaining pile of armour and weapons to choose their own. The incongruity of seeing her armoured and ready for war disoriented him. She looked like a character out of Lord of the Rings, and it took him a moment to realise that all the people standing around looked the same, like actors on a set. He shook his head.

_Get out of that mindset_, he told himself, _this is real and these people could die in the next few days_. Himself included, he thought a moment later as Sam lifted the hauberk, the heavy chainmail shirt, over his head. He grunted as it settled onto his shoulders, the soft iron rings clinking dully. The sleeves were only to his elbows, to protect the big muscles of the upper arms and shoulders. It fell to mid-thigh, and weighed a ton. He would get used to it, he thought, but he had a feeling he'd be regretting the weight until then. Sam handed him a long leather belt, a scabbarded sword buckled to it. He wrapped the belt around himself awkwardly, trying to find the end when a pair of hands brushed his away and rewound the supple leather around his waist. He watched Alis' hands making quick work of fastening the belt, adjusting the hang of the sword so that it laid alongside his flank, the hilt settled across his hip, pointing toward his right hand. She passed him a bow and quiver, and then a shield, similar to her own.

"No, over your shoulder. You'll hit yourself in the face if it hangs that way and you reach for your sword," she told him irritably, lifting the edge away and back.

He nodded and looked at Sam. Ruane stood beside him, fastening the endless buckles and straps, settling the weapons to lie flat against his body. Dean had a momentary mental flash of Conan – not that Sam bore any resemblance to Arnie, but he sure towered above everyone else in the square.

The gates stood open and when Vasiliĭ raised his hand, they began to move out, feet sinking deeply into the mud and earth, following the rutted track south, along the valley floor.

* * *

Dean leaned back against the tree trunk, stretching his legs. Taking off the hauberk every night wasn't an option, the damned thing was too heavy to get on and off without help, and he'd learned to sleep with it on, the discomfort outweighed by the tiredness he felt at the end of each day's march. He looked at the small fire in front of him, its faint warmth just reaching his toes.

Alis emerged from the darkness, holding a bowl and a piece of flatbread. She passed them to him and sat on the trunk, looking into the flames. The bowl held stew, primarily of dried meat and barley, boiled to soften the meat and provide warmth.

"Thanks," he said, using the bread as a spoon and scooping the food into his mouth.

She glanced at him, and then past him to his brother, who lay next to the trunk, propped on an elbow, head resting against his hand. "We'll rest here for a couple of hours but Vasiliĭ wants to push on in the night."

Sam looked up at her, his face half-shadowed by the firelight. "We'll get there just before dawn?"

She nodded. "We have to see what's going on, and most men sleep deeply at that time of the night."

Dean finished the meal and put the bowl on the ground beside him. He thought of what Cas had said. Had they changed history when they'd punched through? What were the possible ramifications of that? Shaking his head slightly, he realised he didn't even know the original history of this part of the world, barely knew the history for his own country. The whole concept was far, far above his pay grade.

Alis picked up the bowl and left them, heading back to the main fire, out of sight behind the woods. Sam sighed and looked at Dean.

"You worried about tomorrow?"

Dean's mouth curved into a smile. "Well, we're in a world that we don't know, armed with weapons we haven't had practice with, against people who've been using them all their lives … why would I be worried?"

Sam snorted. "We could die tomorrow."

Dean shifted against the trunk, closing his eyes and trying to push a wayward link of mail out of the middle of his back. "Then tomorrow will be a good day to die."

* * *

Alis brushed her fingertips over his cheek, and the light touch brought him straight out of sleep. He nodded to her, and looked over to Sam, stretching out his leg, and pushing against Sam's foot with his own.

"Come on. It's time," he said, rolling awkwardly to his knees and staggering to his feet. The damned mail didn't get any lighter. The end of the sword swung around, and he caught the hilt, shifting the belt slightly to one side to resettle it. How he was going to use the sucker was a different matter, although maybe he could pretend it was just a really, really long machete.

"Come on, Sam. Time to go."

Sam sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily at him. "Right, yeah, I'm up."

They lifted their shields over their shoulders and followed Alis back to the rest of Vasiliĭ's small force. It really was small, Dean thought, looking around. Maybe a hundred at most, men and women, those who could use weapons well enough to be of use, or at least not a hindrance.

Beside him, Alis stood quietly, waiting with what seemed to be infinite patience. He knew she was excited, to be going to war, expecting to fight, he could feel the energy rising off her. He hoped she would still be standing beside him at the end of this day.

They walked through the woods, single file, making very little noise for a large armoured party. The faint clink of the chainmail and the soft rustle of the leather garments as they moved, enough to warn a guard if one had been set, but not enough to draw attention to themselves otherwise.

The night was very black when they reached the edge of the forest. Vasiliĭ raised his arm and they came to stop under the protective shadows of the tree line. Dean could see the village wall, torches still flaming on top of it, casting wildly moving shadows on the ground outside. Around the base of the wall were thirty or forty crude but effective tents, made of tanned and waxed skins. Beyond the tents two horse lines formed a rough barrier around the camp.

Vasiliĭ sent three scouts to find the position of the night guards. The enemy was perhaps two hundred strong, double their number. While they had the element of surprise, the villagers trapped inside the wall would not be able to help until dawn, when they could see the difference between friend and foe. He had already decided that they would attack at daybreak, but the guards could be dispatched before then. It was the last watch of the night, they wouldn't be missed until dawn.

He walked silently to Alis and nodded at Sam and Dean.

"Move around to the horse lines. Make sure you're there before the first ray of light. When you hear the signal, cut them. The Kurgans are horse fighters, without their mounts, we will have an equal chance."

Alis' bottom lip pushed forward mulishly and Vasiliĭ's expression hardened to stone.

She dropped her head quickly, "We will."

He nodded and turned away from them, moving to another small grouping and giving them their orders.

"What was that about?" Dean looked down at her curiously.

"Cutting the horse lines is not what I came here to do," she said stubbornly, looking after the village leader.

Sam stepped closer to her. "He's right though. The Scythians were primarily cavalry, without the horses, on foot, they won't have an advantage."

Dean looked at him and shook his head. The things his kid brother knew.

"There are no small jobs in a battle, Alis, you should know that," Sam added to the young woman. "And taking away their advantage, we might see a lot more action than you think."

She considered for that a moment, and her eyes brightened. "Come on, we'll have to take a long way around, there will certainly be guards near the lines."

* * *

There were two guards. Dean crouched down beside his brother, watching them as they crossed in front of them on their patrol.

"Diligent," he breathed. Sam nodded slightly.

"Arrow would be silent," he said.

"Except for the fall and it would probably upset the horses."

He turned to Alis, and swore softly as he realised she'd gone.

"Come on, she's already gone," he said tersely to his brother. They rose to a low crouch and crabbed their way through the trees.

"There." Sam breathed next to Dean's ear. Dean followed his look and saw her, still beside a low shrub at the end of the horse line. She was out of sight of the guard, thankfully, but as the sky lightened she'd become more and more obvious. And the guard was returning down the line toward her.

"Sam, you'll have to take the other guard out. Use the knife, it'll be quieter."

Sam nodded and slid away from him, moving silently between the tree trunks, using every bit of shadow.

Dean turned back to the guard. He was nearing Alis' hiding place. She rose suddenly out of the shadows, stepping forward to meet him, her armour and weapons gone, hair freed from the thick plait in which she'd bound it. Dean's breath caught in his throat as he watched the guard saunter up, apparently unsurprised at the sight of her.

He watched her lean towards the man, tilting her head, speaking to him softly, saw the guard relax, his hand leave the hilt of the short sword belted to his waist to lift her hair, curve his hand behind her neck and draw her close. Her hand slid down her side, drawing a long knife from the sheath on the back of her belt, as she brushed his mouth with her lips. The guard pulled her more tightly to him, and Dean watched the knife flash up, sliding between the slabs of hardened leather the Scythians used as armour, between the ribs on his side, driving into the heart.

It would have worked perfectly, had the man been just a man.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

Sam watched the second guard walking along the line. He had positioned himself in the shadows where the horse line curved a little toward the trees. As the guard passed him, looking toward the horses tethered along the thick rope, he rose from the crouch, striding fast and silently behind him; his knife, with its serrated edge and bone handle, gripped tightly in his hand. The guard sensed him in the last second and began to turn, but Sam's hand wrapped around his head, covering his mouth, and he jerked the man's head back, cutting off the warning shout as the knife blade plunged into the chest.

He almost let go when he saw the molten red-gold light erupting beneath the swarthy skin, shock hitting him like a hammer.

_Demon_.

* * *

The guard looked down at the long blade buried in his side and smiled at Alis, thrusting her from him. She backed away in shock, eyes opened wide as he wrapped his fist around the hilt and pulled the blade out. He looked at it for a moment then threw it aside, his gaze shifting to her as he started walking after her. Dean stared disbelievingly for a moment, then started forward, moving as quietly as he could.

Beyond the guard, Alis kept backing, her hands spread out to either side, her eyes fixed on the guard's face, face twisted into an expression of terror. Dean started to run, grasping the hilt of his sword with his right hand and pulling it free as he anchored the scabbard with his left. The blade hissed slightly against the leather as it came out, and the guard stopped suddenly, turning to him.

Looking into the guard's eyes, gleaming black across the eye socket, no iris, no white, he forced himself to ignore the jolt that went through his nervous system as he recognised what he was facing. He swung the long blade, not high but low, feeling the edge bite through the thick leather of the man's boots, through flesh and tendon and jar on the bone. The guard screamed, his face twisted in a rictus of pain.

"Dean, break left."

Sam's voice sounded from behind him and he yanked the sword free, hitting the ground on his left shoulder and rolling sideways. From the corner of his eye he saw something flash past him. As he came to his feet he saw the bone handle of Ruby's knife, embedded in the chest of the guard, flesh flickering with light as the demon inside was destroyed.

He glanced at the horizon, and where the mountains reared against the eastern sky he could see a thin line of grey.

Alis ran back toward them, struggling back into her hauberk, carrying her weapons. Dean lifted the mass of the shirt above her head and she shoved her arms through. He let it fall onto her shoulders, feeling not the slightest bit of remorse as her knees sagged slightly and a gasp escaped her. She buckled her sword belt on fast, slinging her shield over her shoulder and stringing her bow.

Sam looked at Dean. "It's going to be a massacre."

Dean nodded. "We have to warn them." He looked along the horse lines. "We could use these though, if this is an outrider party." He chewed his lip, considering their fast dwindling set of options.

"Get to Vasiliĭ, and warn him. Everyone has to get into the village, try and defend it." He swung around to Alis. "We'll take the horses, not free them, but take them."

She nodded, and she turned and ran along to the end of the furthest line, her knife retrieved from the ground and in her hand.

"Dean, we're three hundred years before Christianity – no holy water."

"Crap. Fine, salt then – whatever you can find." He watched Sam race along the horse line past Alis and into the tree line, and turned to the end of the line closest to him.

_Demons. Here_.

His thoughts raced in time with his hands as he hacked the end of the line free and started walking toward the forest, the horses, snorting at the change in routine, following him.

A hundred yards away, Alis led her line into the trees, as the first streaks of pale light stretched out across the sky.

* * *

They tethered the two lines in the forest a mile from where they'd come in to the valley. The horses were restive and Dean thought they'd be lucky to come back and find any of them there, but it was the best they could do.

"What was that man?" Alis asked him softly as they made their way back to the village, neither out of breath in the ground-covering dog-trot. Dean glanced at her.

"It was a man, possessed by a demon," he answered shortly. "They're all possessed by demons, I think." He looked ahead through the trees at the encampment outside of the village. "Which means we're in deep shit."

She frowned. "You mean inhabited?

He nodded. "Yeah, inhabited."

"Where is the man's soul?"

"Inside, with the demon, but under its control."

"You killed it."

Dean shook his head impatiently. "We only have one knife that can do that. Demons will ride dead bodies as happily as living ones. Only that knife can kill the demon inside."

He thought of something else. "The arrow tips, they're iron?"

She nodded, baffled at the change in subject.

"That'll help. Iron is like poison to demons." His hand was resting against the hilt of his sword as he ran, and he realised that the blade too was probably iron, not steel. He tried to think of what else they could use.

* * *

Sam slid through the shadows of the trees silently, making his way quietly to the camp. He had no idea how he was going to convince Vasiliĭ to abandon the attack and lead his people into the village. He had no idea if these people had ever encountered a demon – or even heard of one. He remembered that Persia had a long history with demons and a load of lore, but it was a long way from here.

He came into the hidden clearing where he'd last seen them and swore softly. It was empty, they were already on the move, executing the plan that had seemed to have a good chance of success … until now.

Working his way through the trees to the edge of the meadow that belonged to the village, he followed the deep, plain tracks of the warriors. The sky was brightening more and more quickly, grey giving way to pearl, clouds edged with rose and gold as the sun inched over the mountains to the east.

By the time Sam reached the fight, he knew he was too late. Vasiliĭ stood by the gate, surrounded by thirty of his people. They were fighting desperately, back to back, and above them on the wall surrounding the village, the people of Black Valley fired arrows into the enemy, threw boiling oil over them, used anything they could think of to gain enough advantage to be able to open the thick gates and give their kin shelter.

But the demons riding their Kurgan soldiers ignored the arrows embedded in their armour and flesh and bone; laughed at the missing limbs; at the fatal stab wounds; at the blood and sweat and stink that covered the churned up ground in front of the village gate.

Sam saw the bodies of the people of the village of Deep Ice, the village that had welcomed them in, given them shelter, lying crumpled by the wall, chopped up across the field, and he was out of the shadows and running toward the fight without thought, knife held in his hand. He slashed at the first Kurgan in front of him, opening a wound across the back of its neck that rippled with golden light as the blade severed the spine, and plunging the knife into the chest deeply as the body fell back toward him. The skin lit up and he pulled the knife free, moving onto the next, spinning, ducking, weaving and dodging as the knife rose and fell, blood covering the blade, the hilt and his arm to the elbow.

* * *

When Dean and Alis came to the edge of the trees, Sam stood in the centre of the clearing, his head bowed, breathing heavily, bodies piled around him. Several villagers were severing the heads of the remaining demons. Vasiliĭ stood by the open gate, talking with the leader of Black Valley. He glanced at them as they walked across the meadow, nodding to them, and turned back to the other man.

"You do this, Sam?" Dean looked around at the bodies around them. Sam nodded. From neck to ankle his clothing was red with blood, his face spattered and speckled with it.

"Look at this." He crouched beside one of the bodies, now headless, and lifted a limp arm. Dean hunched over beside him, staring at the brand on the arm, a circle with a short line through one side. Sam shifted, pushing his sleeve back and extending his own arm so that it was side by side with the other. The two brands were identical, save Sam's had a thick line crossing the entire circle. Bobby had done that, with a red-hot fire poker.

"Binding link." Dean looked around the bodies surrounding them. "Why? Why lock them into the meatsuits when they can be trapped that way?"

"No idea. It helps though. When we burn the bodies, they'll be sent back to Hell."

They straightened up and walked toward Vasiliĭ's group. Alis stood by him, listening to him talk to the new leader of Black Valley.

Vasiliĭ turned as they approached, thick dark brows drawing together. "What are these things?"

Dean's lips compressed as he considered how to answer that. "They're demons. They possess the bodies of the soldiers, even when they're dead."

He glanced around. "Decapitation or cutting off the limbs will slow them down, maybe stop them. But we need salt – a demon can't cross a line of salt or iron."

Vasiliĭ's expression was a mixture of horror, confusion and relief. "Demons, yes. We've heard of these creatures, from far to the south. But have never seen them." His face became hard and closed as he looked at the bodies of his people, scattered over the bloody ground. "Salt? And iron? We have plenty of both."

He looked up at them. "How do we use it?"

* * *

For the next two days, everyone, from the oldest grandfather to toddlers just able to walk, worked on the village's defences. The salt mine was normally a two day walk, to a smooth valley that had once been a briny lake, and walking, even with the handcarts, there was a limit on how much could be carried back. The sixty horses, still tied on their lines in the forest when Dean, Alis and several villagers had returned for them, made the trip fast and worthwhile. The horses were loaded with salt, and the blacksmith and wheelwright were quick to modify several carts to enable them to pulled by the horses, rather than by men.

There were a variety of problems with laying the salt around the village. It would poison the soils if too much were used and through dissolution, leeched into the ground. And rain would dissolve the defences if the salt lines were left in the open. It took Sam several hours to discover that the palisade wall of Black Valley had been built as a double wall, with a gap of thirty inches between the two walls of logs. Filled with rubble and rock and earth, it had made the wall much stronger than a single log wall could be, and it gave them a place to pack the salt crystals, to make a permanent defensive barrier to demon incursion.

Sam worked with the blacksmith, Kirill, to make iron blades that were stronger than those they had. The addition of carbon and the rock salt to the molten ore produced harder, more flexible weapons, closer to modern steel, and weapons that were more deadly to the demon-possessed Scythian army. As he watched the big man working the metal, his face lit by the lurid red-gold light of the forge fire, Sam wondered again about the binding links. They had found one on every soldier's body, trapping the demon within when the body was incapacitated. What he couldn't understand was why. It limited the demons flexibility enormously.

* * *

Dean was wondering the same thing as he drove iron spikes into the huge beam. The village was built similarly to Deep Ice, a stone stronghold surrounded by less fortified homes, which in turn were protected within the village wall. If the demons did breach the wall somehow, the villagers needed a strong, protected building to keep them safe. The stone of the leader's house was four feet thick, and built partially into the hillside behind it. Dean and several men from the village were rebuilding the doors and gates to the two entrances, replacing the thinner hardwood with much thicker planks, and sheeting them in iron. The extra weight meant that the doorways themselves had to be rebuilt, but Sam's knowledge and Kirill's enthusiasm for new ideas had provided them with the tools and materials to hang the gates deep within the stone, the weight balanced on a thick pivot so that despite its size even a small child could push it shut and lock the massive barrel tenons that extended through the door and into the walls.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked around. Vasiliĭ had sent messengers to every village along the mountains; mounted now, they would be able to warn the other settlements of what they were facing, give them the details of how to protect themselves. Two more scouts had ridden out that morning, heading east and south, to locate the main body of the Scythian army.

He wanted to get back to Deep Ice as soon as possible, its vulnerability played on his nerves, and they needed to talk to Cas about this – surely in the time he'd been stationed on earth, he would know about this. He knew Vasiliĭ wanted to get back as well, it was only his sense of honour that had kept him here this long. In the morning they would be leaving, taking as much of the rock salt and the smelted pigs of iron ore as they could carry. Twenty of the horses would remain here, the rest would be taken back, carrying the Deep Ice warriors or pulling the carts that Black Valley could spare, loaded with salt and ore.

"Your brother is looking for you."

Alis' voice behind him made him jump slightly. He turned to look at her.

"Don't sneak up on people."

"If you don't want to be startled, then keep your wits about you, instead of being in a dream," she retorted.

He scowled at her. "Where is he?"

"With Kirill, at the forge." She looked at the long beam, held now by huge iron spikes. "Will it be enough?" She gestured around them, "All this, to keep them out?"

Dean turned away, mouth twisting. "I hope so."

"You don't sound certain," she said quietly. He glanced at her as he set down his tools, and unbuckled the leather tool belt from his waist.

"I'm not," he admitted. "This is as strong as we can make it, and it should be strong enough for what we've seen so far." He shrugged. "If they have stronger demons with them, then maybe not."

He followed her down the narrow road to the forge, ransacking his memories along the way. Without the exorcisms, there was no way of sending the demons back to Hell. But he'd read somewhere, in Bobby's library maybe, sometime, about more ancient methods for dealing with demonkind. He just couldn't remember where – or what the details had been.

* * *

Sam looked up as Dean ducked under the low doorway and came into the workshop. He held out a sword and a knife. The blades of both were black, with an oily gleam and satin finish. Dean took them, looking at the fine edges.

"I had an idea," Sam said, the barest hint of a smile tucking in the corners of his mouth. Dean raised an eyebrow at the expression as his brother took back the sword.

"Come on, I want to show you." He walked around the massive stone that Kirill used as an anvil, and ducked low through the doorway. Dean followed him, somewhat mystified.

They had been burning bodies for the last two days, but with the other work, only a few men could be spared for the job. Several of the Scythian soldiers still lay in a pile by the wall, their flesh slow to decompose in the cold weather.

Sam looked at them, and chose a body that had been decapitated but was otherwise intact. He lifted the sword and drove it suddenly into the chest. Dean jumped as the body arched suddenly up, a furious burst of red-gold erupting from beneath the skin.

When it had died completely, he turned to look at his brother, mouth open.

"You made a demon-killing sword?" He looked back at the body. "How?"

"We've made a dozen demon-killing swords – and knives for every man, woman and child here." He wiped the blade on the body's clothing and slid into the scabbard at his side. "We never knew where Ruby's knife came from – even Alastair didn't know, and he was a lot older than Ruby – but what if it was made here. Now. Because of what's happening?"

Dean looked at him. "How?"

"Kirill and I were using different mixes in smelting the ore, adding more or less carbon, and the salt, to get a harder metal, something that wouldn't just bend, and would take an edge better, and keep it longer. And I just thought, well it couldn't hurt to try." He shook his head. "I put about a quart of blood from one of the possessed bodies into the latest batch."

Dean's eyes narrowed as he thought about that. "And it worked."

"Yeah, Kirill forged the sword and worked it yesterday. It's not as well made as with multiple workings; usually a sword would take weeks to be finished, but we needed to see if it would work." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Kirill calls it blood metal."

Dean shook his head slowly in admiration. "Dude, you are awesome." He looked down at the black metal blade of the knife he still held.

"Where are we going to get enough demon blood to make these standard munitions?"

"We'll have to bleed out the ones that haven't been burned. Alis has gone to round up some of the women to do that now. If they come calling again, then we'll have a better supply."

Dean gave him a bleak glance. "Yeah, and other bodies too."

Sam turned away. "I know, but at least this gives them a chance."

Dean grimaced, and reached out to touch his shoulder. "No, you're right. Sorry." He shrugged. "It's good, Sam. Better than good. It'll give them – and us – a chance."


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Dean held the head of his mount, absently stroking the long nose, his hands warmed by the horse's breath. Around him, the fifty remaining fighters of Deep Ice village were loading salt and iron onto the pack animals and into the carts, re-settling their shields and weapons, tightening the leather girths on the crude saddles and loading the armour, weapons and personal possessions of their dead friends and neighbours on top of the loads in the carts.

Vasiliĭ stood apart, watching as well. Dean could see the deepening of the lines that seamed the leader's face, grief and responsibility etched permanently, and more silver showing in the long black hair that was bound at the nape of his neck.

They had lost fifty men and women in the attack; husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, skilled hunters and fighters and craftsmen, people who were essential to their continued survival and prosperity in the mountain country. There would be grieving when they returned to their valley, and even that could not last long as the ground had to be turned, the seed planted and tended, or they would starve over the following winter. And, Dean thought unhappily, the village had to be protected, taking more people and time.

Alis led her horse up beside him. The horses of the steppes were thick-boned and slightly smaller than he was used to seeing in his own time. They had evolved over millennia to survive in one of the harshest environments on earth, the high windswept plains that lay between Russia and the Middle East, where the winter temperatures were frequently forty below zero, and the short summers were dry and desert-like, the temperatures rising above forty degrees and the grasses burning away. They were able to survive in the worst conditions and even now their coats were thick and soft, ribs and hips covered comfortably despite the long winter. They would be very useful additions to the villages, for transport and sending messages, and harnessed to the simple ploughs and hoes, to make the planting and harvesting more efficient and faster.

"Are you ready?" she asked him. He nodded, looking around for Sam. He saw him on the other side of the clearing, holding his own horse and talking to Kirill. The blacksmith of Black Valley had taken Sam on as an apprentice of sorts, and in return, Sam had filled the man's mind with ideas, radical and unheard of in this time, commonplace and well-known in their own.

Dean passed the split leather reins over his horse's head as Vasiliĭ's people began to mount, tucking his foot into the simple stiffened leather loop that served as a stirrup, and springing up and into the simple saddle. He rubbed the bay mare along her neck, under the thick black mane. Years ago, he'd done a few weeks work at a cattle ranch in Colorado, just after Sam had gone to Stanford. Regular work, not hunting, and had enjoyed it, developing a liking for the horses that had been used extensively on the ranch, and skills that he could put into practice again now. His fingers lay lightly on the reins, which controlled the horse's head not by a bit but through pressure on the nose, cheeks and neck, and turned the mare around with his legs, waiting for the carts and pack horses to pass first.

The return journey, though they had to take a different path, lower down the sides of the mountains where the ground was easier and the paths wider, took a day on horseback, instead of the four it had needed on foot. Without the threat of attack, and the crushing grief of losing their own, the ride might have been pleasant. Instead, they hurried along, alert and silent, wanting to be home.

* * *

They reached the village wall at dusk, the torches already flaming on top of the palisade wall, the gate fires already burning. Sam dismounted stiffly, the muscles of his legs and his seat bones protesting at the change after twelve hours of sitting in one position – more or less. His mount blew at him as he walked up to its head, rubbing the ridge above its eye hard against his shoulder. He braced himself and smiled. Even though they weren't comfortable, were sometimes intractable, insisted on doing much of the thinking about trails and routes themselves, he found himself liking them.

Dean rode up beside him and dismounted, stretching out his back and thighs as they waited for the rest of the party to go through.

"Well, I'm kind of glad Dad never got me a pony for Christmas now," Sam said softly.

Dean laughed. "It just takes a few days for your muscles to get used to it." He looked back down the trail they'd ridden in on. "And it beats walking, carrying a load yourself."

They led their horses into the square, finding a spare pen for them, tying them and unsaddling them. Two of the villagers brought armfuls of hay for them, and they slipped the bridles off, and stood by the rails, watching them eat for a moment.

Dean picked up the saddle and bridle, holding them over his arm as he turned around. Sam did the same, a little more awkwardly.

"Alis? Where can we put this stuff?" Dean called out as he spotted her. She held her own saddlery over her arms and jerked her head sideways. They followed her down to a large timber barn, built against the palisade wall and put down their loads.

"Vasiliĭ wants to see you – and your friend, Casteel, as soon as possible," she said quickly, hurrying from the barn.

Dean looked at Sam. "Pow-wow time."

Sam nodded.

* * *

Vasiliĭ sat on a pile of furs in front of the fire in their room, talking to Castiel. The low table was covered with platters and bowls of food, and their stomachs rumbled and growled as they walked reluctantly past to seat themselves close to the angel.

"Demons?" Castiel looked at them. "Here?"

"Yeah, an army of demons," Dean clarified, trying to ignore the scents that wafted toward them from the table. "And they were bound, locked into the meat–" he stopped, glancing at Vasiliĭ. "… uh, into their flesh."

Castiel looked at the village leader, a frown drawing his brows close together. "In the last ten years, have there been any massacres, or disasters, taking many lives, over a thousand?"

Vasiliĭ's eyes narrowed as he thought. "Yes, there was one such event, three years ago. A force from the far east, the yellow men, came and killed many, many people, in the lands southeast of here, at the end of the mountain range."

"Azerbaijan," Castiel commented to Dean and Sam. "Did they stay, and conquer those lands?"

Vasiliĭ shook his head. "No, my cousin, who lives close to the border, said that they came and spilled blood, and then left."

"How many people were killed, Vasiliĭ, and where was the massacre?" Castiel leaned toward the leader, his expression intense.

"From the foothills on the southern end of the mountains, to the shores of the great sea that lies to the east, to where the desert begins in the south." Vasiliĭ closed his eyes, recalling the fear and talk that had spread after the invasion. "Two or three hundred villages, towns, were sacked and destroyed. No one was left alive."

Dean felt a trickle of cold dread spread down his spine at the man's words. If each village held one or two hundred people, and the towns maybe more – he was talking about tens of thousands, not thousands. Sam's expression mirrored his own.

Castiel leaned back, nodding slowly. "It takes a great deal of bloodshed to open a gate. And there was – is – a gate in the lower Caucasus, near the Caspian Sea. Someone planned this, brought this to pass." He looked at Dean. "The gateways to Hell exist over the earth. They are locked but have cracks, some wide enough for demons to get through, from time to time, in very small numbers. But when a gate is opened, many can come through, as you know."

He closed his eyes, his head tipping back as he drew every memory he had of this time. "The gate was sealed in my time here. There were no records of it ever having been opened." His eyes flew open suddenly, staring fixedly at the fire in front of him. "Something has changed. And it changed before we were pushed here, so perhaps the push wasn't by someone trying to thwart our plans, but by someone trying to stop whatever is happening here."

Turning his head, the angel looked at Vasiliĭ. "You said that the Scythians began to attack two years ago, corresponding with a new weather cycle?"

Vasiliĭ nodded uneasily. "We had two very bad years, long winters we know, but not this long, and too much rain in the spring, not enough in the summer. The crops died in many places south of here. And the people died too, of famine, of sickness that had no name."

Sam looked at Castiel. "Please tell me the Horsemen haven't been summoned."

Castiel shook his head. "No, when the weather changes and the crops fail, famine and sickness always follow. There's nothing … unusual … about that."

"Then what's going on?" Dean looked from Vasiliĭ's worried face to Castiel.

"I don't know," Castiel said slowly. "Someone has opened a gate to Hell and released a lot of demons. They've bound them into the bodies of the Scythians, sometimes called the Kurgans, for the burial mounds that are scattered across their realm. In our – in my experience, the Scythians invaded to the east of their lands, the steppes, into Asia. They did not turn west." He sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "Someone has altered the course of events, and is using the demons to achieve something that was not written in the destiny lines. Someone who is powerful enough to control them, to work the spells of the binding links, of the possessions."

Vasiliĭ looked at the angel's face worriedly. "You are talking no sense, my friend. Who has such power to control demons? Or to change destiny?"

"I don't know, Vasiliĭ," Castiel admitted. He looked at Dean again. "But every settlement, every person who lives in these lands is in danger. The Scythians were – are - renowned for their ability in war. They are mounted and skilled at fighting on horseback, and they were born of the high desert, with the stamina and survival skills of the horses that carry them. They are a formidable enemy."

Dean took a deep breath. "That's just freaking great, Cas."

Sam shook his head. "With the blood metal weapons we can make, we can at least hold them off. But we can't fight the main army head to head; there aren't enough people who can be spared here."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "We will see what the scouts say, when they return. It is unlikely that these mountains are the target of an attack like this. We are sparsely populated, spread thin-"

Castiel looked at him. "But a road through here, to the north and west – the lands of the west are rich, and heavily populated."

Vasiliĭ shrugged. "There is a good road to the west in the far south – the yellow men and all the traders use it, they do not have to cross over mountains this high."

"The Silk Road," Sam said quietly, and the leader nodded.

Vasiliĭ looked around at the table. "The food is cooling. We must eat."

* * *

Dean licked his fingers and leaned back against the edge of the table, his feet extended to the fire. Vasiliĭ had left them and the food had been good, still hot and delicious after the days of trail provisions. He picked up the cup of warm wine, sipping it, letting the taste sit on his tongue as Ruane had told him to. The herbs and spices that infused the rich wine added a multitude of tastes over and above the earthy taste of the grapes themselves. He let it trickle down his throat, closing his eyes.

Alis opened the door, coming in with a heavy earthenware jar in her hands. She put it on the table and looked from Sam to Dean. "My mother thought you would like this. It is from her homeland." She held out her hands for their cups and they finished the contents quickly, handing them to her.

The liquid she poured from the jug was a deep golden brown, the smell was sweet and rich with cinnamon, but with an underlying smell of mustiness. Dean looked at it suspiciously. Sam leaned forward.

"Mead?" he asked. Alis nodded, looking up as Ruane came in with another two cups. She poured them out and stoppered the jug, picking up her cup and sipping the spiced sweet drink.

Sam took his and tasted it, swallowing a mouthful when he realised that it wasn't too sweet.

"What is it?" Dean picked up the cup and looked at it.

"Mead, alcohol made from honey," Sam said. He looked at Alis and Ruane with a slight smile. "Skol."

Alis' smiled widened as she raised her cup. "Skol."

Ruane looked from one to the other, unsure of the joke.

Dean lifted the cup and dipped the end of his tongue in. The taste was sweet but not overly so, cut by the spices. He drank a little, wondering briefly if he was supposed to let this sit in his mouth before swallowing as well. He didn't think so. He didn't think much of the alcohol content, but it went down easily enough.

He looked behind him, to where Cas lay on the furs.

"Cas?" He leaned toward the bed. "You awake?"

Castiel moved slightly, raising his head. "Yes."

"You wanna try some of this? It's pretty good." Dean rolled to his feet, taking the cup to the angel.

"Mead?" Castiel looked down at the thick liquid.

Dean frowned. Did everyone know about this stuff except him?

"Yeah." He sat down next to the furs, watching as Castiel sipped at the drink. "Vasiliĭ was right. Who in this time could control demons, raise an army of them?"

Castiel shook his head. He didn't know, not for sure. And he couldn't think of any way to verify it. Or what the possible purpose could be for it.

"There are the Watchers," he said at last, reluctantly.

"The who?" Dean looked up as Sam crouched down beside them.

"The Watchers. In your time, they were sometimes called the Eighth Choir, but that isn't right." Castiel swallowed the remaining mead in the cup and handed it back to Dean. "They are … were … angels, who fell to earth. Some of the Fallen fought with Lucifer and were cast down with him. Some remained out of the conflict, and swore to watch over the human race, to teach them the knowledge and skills of Heaven. Some remained neutral in the war of Heaven but were ambivalent at best, or at worst, malevolent about humanity."

Alis brought the jug from the table, refilling their cups. "These Watchers, where are they?"

"Mostly Syria, some in Jordan." He looked up at her, seeing that the names were meaningless. "In the deserts to the south, that lie along the edge of the western sea."

"Are they giants?" She stared at Castiel.

"Some are." He nodded. "Have you heard of them?"

She nodded. "I thought it was … you know, tales to tell children, to make them afraid, but my mother said they were real, they lived far away and they were more than men, living for hundreds of years."

Dean looked from Alis to Sam to Castiel. "So there are fallen angels around here, a few of which hate humanity?"

Sam was frowning, chasing down an illusive memory. "Noah's great-great-great-whatever grandfather wrote about them, didn't he?"

Castiel sighed. "Yes, something of them, at any rate."

"They took human women for wives, and had children." Sam closed his eyes as the memory crystallised. "And God sent the flood to wipe them out."

Dean looked at Sam. "Didn't read that in the bible."

Sam shook his head. "It's in one of the non-canonical texts – the Book of Enoch. Quite a lot about the 'sons of God' – the angels who fell deliberately, because they wanted to be a part of humanity, have families."

Castiel shrugged. "Bearing in mind that it was written a long time ago and has been mistranslated several times since, but yes, that's the gist of it."

"So we could be up against a fallen angel, who's pissed generally at humans, and what? Wants to wipe us out? Finish what the flood started? Bring Hell to earth?"

"I don't know, Dean," Castiel said, impatience edging his voice. "I'm not even sure that it is one of them we seek."

"But they're around at this time, and they have means and motive. Angels could control demons, and it's a good bet that's why the demons are locked in." Dean looked from the angel to Sam.

Ruane watched the conversation, feeling a dread rising in her heart. She edged closer to Sam, shivering a little as she heard the uncertainty and uneasiness in their voices. Sam turned, seeing the expression on her face. He shifted his legs, slipping an arm around her and drawing her close.

"Yes, it would explain that," Castiel agreed reluctantly.

Valenis pushed the door open and walked over to them, her hands settling on her hips as she took in the expressions on their faces.

"Castiel, you should be resting." She glanced at her daughter. "You are all so young and healthy that you do not need sleep for the work you will be doing tomorrow?"

Alis rose to her feet, and picked up the jug of mead. Ruane rose as well, sorry that Valenis had chosen this time to interrupt them, the warmth where Sam's arm had lain upon her shoulders now cooling.

Dean and Sam stood slowly, going to the low table and gathering the bowls and dishes from their meal and stacking them onto the flat wooden trays, leaving Valenis alone with Castiel, as they carried them out and back to the kitchen.

"You must rest, Castiel." She crouched down beside him, laying the back of her fingers against his temple, and then his neck. "Guin will be here tomorrow, to make sure you are resting."

He looked at her, her face shadowed, the fire at her back. "I was resting -"

"You think the Qaddiysh are responsible for the demons?" she said, using the Aramaic term.

Castiel looked up at her slowly. "Yes, maybe."

She nodded. "It is possible. There is someone I can ask, someone who could confirm it if it is true."

"Who?" Castiel struggled to a sitting position. Valenis looked at him in frustration.

"Lie down, rest." She pushed him down and pulled the furs over him again. "In the mountains, a long way to the west and south, near the headwaters of the ancient river, a man lives. He is not a man, you understand, he has lived there for a long time. He has been a friend, someone who helps when he can. His name is Penemue."

Castiel nodded, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "I know of a man who is not a man called by that name."

She nodded. "I will contact him, in the water, and ask. But only if you rest now, and tell your friends to let you rest."

Castiel settled back against the smooth fur and allowed her to tuck the edges against him. Penemue. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen his brother.

* * *

When Dean and Sam returned to the room, Castiel was asleep, his breathing light and steady. Sam laid more wood on the fire, wondering if he'd ever feel really warm again. Dean took off his boots and clothes, and stretched out on the soft furs, feeling the room sway very gently.

Guess the mead had a bit of a delayed kick, he thought, as sleep stole in and pulled him away.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

The morning air held a touch of warmth, the sky a cloudless blue that arced overhead, framing the mountain peaks like an amphitheatre. Dean could almost feel the restless energy in the earth as the soil warmed and the plants stirred and winter fell away.

With the help of the horses, the soil of the fields had been tilled and the wheat, oats, rye and barley had been planted out in a short time, every person capable of walking and carrying the slings filled with seed, had gone out to help. He was still aching from the endless repetitious actions, casting out the seed from the roughly woven slings, holding the simple wooden and iron ploughs steady as the horses dragged them through the moist earth, row after row along the river flats and the more gentle sides of the valley.

He walked past the stacks of logs that had been next priority; building a second, thicker log wall out from the existing palisade wall. It was almost finished; the big, mature logs set deeply into the ground, angled slightly outward, the upward ends sharpened. The village was not difficult to build defences around, its position against the slope of the valley wall helped, giving the walls greater height than just the height of the logs, as the ground fell away under them.

The messengers to the other villages had returned a week ago, and were waiting on Sam and Torgva to finish the blood metal weapons that needed to go out. The blacksmith and his brother had been experimenting with casting the swords as well as forging them; the cast weapons were inferior, but were made more quickly, and in greater quantities and unlike most weapons, it was the metal itself that brought death to the demons, not in the strength of the blade.

Demonsbane swords, Alis had nicknamed them, he remembered with a half-laugh. Despite the fact that he was wearing a homespun shirt, leather pants and vest, had a sword and knife belted on him every day – in fact felt naked without them now – he still couldn't quite rid himself of the idea that they'd been dropped into Middle Earth. Not having to see himself in a mirror helped.

Castiel was healing, but slowly. Valenis wouldn't revise her original estimate of his full recovery, and he wondered if they would still be here next winter. The angel seemed to be quietly determined now, talking of the action they could take if the army was heading into the mountains, of ambush and booby trapping the rudimentary roads through the valleys and ridges that they would have to take. Guerrilla warfare, Sam had said, the only possible offence they could mount with their inferior numbers.

On Cas' advice, Vasiliĭ had already posted watchers on the three peaks that surrounded them, each with a signal fire to ensure that the village had enough time to prepare for an attack, if and when it came.

Dean walked on, vaguely aware that he was fitter, harder than he'd been in years, his stride long and springy, the muscles worked hard and used to the labour now. He didn't even notice the steep downgrade to the rough quarry of glacier gravel that was providing the infill for the new walls. Stopping on the low, dividing ridge, and looking down into the small valley, where a long-ago ice behemoth had dropped thousands of tons of rock and soil and pebbles as it had retreated back up into the mountains, he watched the men digging through the rubble, filling the carts with what would become a loose aggregate, holding the larger rocks and pigs of pure iron and salt layers in a firmly packed barrier, impervious to hellspawn – and to a few other creatures that lived in these mountains, he hoped. He'd been noticed, he saw, several of the men lifting hands in greeting before resuming their digging and he continued down, picking his way along the rough track.

The gates had already been rebuilt, a five layer sandwich of thick oak planks, soaked in a brine solution, and coarse iron sheeting, strapped and bound with blood metal and hung on a massive pivot that was inset between the old and new palisade walls. He doubted it could be breeched, the twisting road up leading up it wouldn't allow for a good run for a battering ram, and it was two feet thick now. He supposed there were some advantages to the primitive weapons that were all anyone could use in this time.

"Dean!" Elbek called to him from the flat bottom of the quarry. "Maia found tracks this morning, on the edge of the forest."

"Tracks of what?" He walked toward him, brows raised.

"Wyvern." Elbek grinned at him. "We will hunt it tonight, yes?"

Dean's mouth compressed slightly. He nodded. The last thing they needed after spending all this time and effort on building the defences around the village was a creature who could riddle the walls and gate with acid. And he could admit to a curiosity about a creature who was a smaller cousin to a dragon.

"I'll let Vasiliĭ know tonight." He looked around. "How many do we need to hunt it?"

"Five will do." Elbek shrugged and lifted another shoveload of the aggregate into the cart beside him.

The filling of the walls was a time-consuming, tedious, labour-intensive job. Dean longed for a backhoe. But even with one, the chances of being able to get it close enough to the walls, on the slopes of broken rock and pockets of boggy mud were nil. He picked up another shovel and began to dig, loading the cart alongside Elbek.

Why was it, that no matter where or when he was, he was always digging?

* * *

Sam looked at the sword critically. The balance was good, the metal lighter and stronger than the previous batch. The oily, iridescent gleam on the black metal was consistent across all the batches they'd made. He put it down and picked up another, holding it straight out in front of him, seeing that the blade was perfectly straight; in cross-section, it bowed out slightly from the centre, fullered through the middle to further lighten it, and conversely provide a greater strength. This new batch took a very keen edge when sharpened and polished. The swords had full tangs, the hilts a simple crossguard and a thick wrapping of wire, providing a good grip in any weather. He set it down, satisfied that these were suitable to send out, and began to pack them into hemp sacks, wrapping each blade in a length of roughly tanned and oiled leather to protect the edges.

Ruane watched him for a moment before she spoke. "Are they ready?"

He looked up and nodded. "Yeah, these can go out to the other villages."

She turned and walked away to tell her father. The messengers, Petr and Yuri and Natil, would be able to leave within the hour. The sight of the stacks of the black blood metal swords should have been reassuring, but it was another reminder to her that the world was changing, and not likely for the better.

* * *

"You look … very handsome." Guin said, as she stood in front of Castiel. He wore the new clothing she'd made for him, a shirt of tightly woven homespun, buttery soft tanned pants, a thick vest of lambskin that would meet with the healer's approval, she hoped. He glanced at her, his face expressionless, but his eyes amused.

"That's not necessary." He walked slowly across the room, observing, probing his vessel's body for weakness. It seemed to be functioning correctly, for the most part. The headaches were still present, and he became short of breath, his heart accelerating after a few minutes of exertion, but that was to be expected. He'd never travelled back so far before, not even on his own, let alone trying to hold two humans with him and protect them. The clothes felt strange, the textures very different from modern clothing, but they fit and would, he thought with a characteristic pragmatism, feel comfortable once he was used to them.

He turned back to her, feeling a strange sensation as he looked at the long, pale blonde hair that hung loose down her back, drawn back and framing her face, an oval face with clear pale skin, the tawny eyes shadowed a little by the long darker lashes.

They had spoken together of many things, of her travels in the region, of the life in the village, of his experiences with people, and his doubts about his decisions. He supposed that he knew her, reasonably well, now. He found talking to her easy, comfortable, without the pitfalls and traps that talking to others seem to hold. She didn't make references to things he knew nothing of, as if they were common; she asked nothing of him, but his company, and she was kind, no matter which way the conversations turned. It was – relaxing – to spend time with her.

The sensation was indefinable, a hint of warmth in his chest – he wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Valenis will be here soon. Sit down, or I'll get into trouble for not letting you rest," she said, walking toward him, and gesturing to the floor beside the low table. Castiel lowered himself to the floor slowly, and leaned against the table. Guin straightened the beds, added more wood to the fire, moving slowly around the room, her eyes looking for things to do with her hands.

"Guin." Castiel watched her. "What's wrong?"

She looked at him, smiling. "Nothing."

"Then sit with me."

He saw a soft flush of red seep into the skin of her neck and cheeks as she turned away from him slightly. He watched her, baffled. She had never been nervous or uncertain in his company before.

The tentative train of thought was interrupted by Valenis' entrance, and as he greeted the healer, he noticed that Guin had left, closing the door behind her softly.

"Well, you have your confirmation," Valenis said, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him. "Penemue said that three of the Qaddiysh have turned, begun their plans to make war on humanity. Armârôs is leading them."

Castiel closed his eyes. Three of them. That explained how they'd been able to open the gate, and control not only the main army of demons, but the scouting parties as well.

And it explained why the demons were being bound into the flesh of the soldiers. The Watchers would not want the hellspawn roaming free across the earth. He wondered what deal had been made with the Fallen of Hell to provide so many demons for the task. The archdemons had long ago given up any fealty or even preference for seraphim, though they'd once been brothers all. It had to be for power. Everything was for power.

He rubbed his fingers over his face. Someone had changed something prior to their backward push through time and space, had enabled a line of destiny to break free of the matrix, to follow an alternative path. Whatever it had been, it could not be undone, not now, not here in this time. They would have to erase the results of the path, although he couldn't see how that could be accomplished either. Already, Sam had taught the blacksmith far too much to be able to undo it, or forget it. The blood metal had been forged. Demonkind had been seen, been fought. Stories would become legends, legends become myth and he had no recollections of such myths in the time of the Winchesters.

If they were not able to undo the line, then they must end it, he thought tiredly. The Watchers would have to die. And the enslaved demons. And whatever deal had been made with the Unclean would have to be undone. He couldn't think of a way to achieve any of those things with the resources he had to hand. He needed Heaven. Needed the guidance of Michael and the power of the souls.

* * *

"A wyvern? Here in the valley?" Vasiliĭ stared at Dean, then turned to look at Elbek. "There haven't been wyvern so low for many, many years."

Dean shrugged. It was a monster, they would kill it, then hopefully many more years could pass in safety before another ventured down.

"The snows were deep this winter passed." Elbek looked at the leader. "Perhaps it's hungry."

"Perhaps." He nodded tiredly. They couldn't afford to let it roam, destroying their livestock and crops if it had come down in search of food. "Take the most experienced decoys, Elbek, we cannot afford to lose anyone else."

Elbek nodded, slapping Dean on the shoulder exuberantly as he turned and strode down the hall to gather the hunters.

Vasiliĭ looked at Dean. "How are the walls coming?"

"Good. They'll be done by the end of the week." He looked around. "We should be posting guards on the fields now."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "I know. We'll start from tonight. They'll be excused from the building work." He looked at the younger man, seeing the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

"If you are hunting tonight, you should rest. You look horrible."

Dean's mouth lifted at one corner. "Yeah. I will."

He turned away from the leader, walking across the hall to the long tables where his brother was sitting with Ruane and her father.

"Feel like hunting wyvern tonight, Sam?" He sat down and took the bowl of soup and bread that Ruane passed him. It was hot and nourishing, he supposed, but he longed for a burger, loaded with saturated fats. He'd have to do something about that, when they had time. Ground meat was ground meat, he reasoned, slurping up the rich liquid and using the bread to wipe his mouth.

"Sure." Sam used the remains of his roll to wipe the bowl clean. "What weapons do we use?"

"Sword, shield, axe," Alis said from behind Dean, walking up to the table and sitting beside him. "Two will play decoy, get its attention. Two others will have the butcher work. The last will keep watch so that we're not taken by surprise if anything else turns up." She took the bowl from Ruane and ate quickly.

"So, who does what?" Sam looked from her to Dean, brows raised.

"The decoys have to be fast, and skilled. The butchers, less skill is needed, mainly strength." Alis looked across the hall. "I think Elbek will choose Lyre as the other decoy."

"The other decoy?" Dean looked at her. She nodded.

"We'll be the decoys. We're lighter and faster. And more skilled with our weapons." The glint of humour was back in her eyes and Dean restrained the urge to roll his own. "You and Sam are not so skilled, but you don't need much skill to kill it, just big muscles."

Alis glanced at Ruane, the younger woman's mouth tucking into the corners, as she repressed a smile. Dean exchanged a look with Sam, who shrugged. She was right, they didn't have the same level of skill. He wasn't sure why Dean let the girl get under his skin all the time.

"When do we go?" he asked Alis.

"After moonrise. We'll take the horses up the mountain. They'll be bait, draw the wyvern, and there'll be a lot to carry back."

Sam's forehead creased. "What do you mean?"

Ruane turned to him. "Wyverns are magical creatures, like their cousins. We need to bring back most of the carcass, for the teeth and claws, the wings and the scales."

"And the heart," Alis added, rolling her head back and stretching. "I'm going to rest."

She swung her legs over the bench, swivelling around, and stood up, walking across the hall to the great doors and disappearing into the darkness.

"You will be careful, tonight." Ruane looked at Sam worriedly. "Wyvern may not be as big as dragons or have the same magic, but they are cunning, and fast. The acid burns deeply, very quickly. You must not get it on you, anywhere."

She stood up and walked away, heading for the staircase and the rooms of her family.

Dean looked at Sam, brows raised. "That wasn't reassuring."

Sam watched the slender, dark-haired girl until she had climbed out of sight, then turned back to his brother. "No. It wasn't."


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

* * *

The moon was waning, less than a quarter showing as the dark streamers of cloud blew across the sky, driven fast before a chilling northern wind.

Alis sat on her horse, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the fur wrapped around her, the scent of the coming snow blowing down the valley. Beside her, Dean stood next to his mount, watching the steam from its nostrils lit white by the intermittent moonlight and wondering what'd possessed him to volunteer for this hunt. He could have been inside, asleep, warm and oblivious now.

Sam came down the broad, shallow steps in front of the keep, Lyre and Elbek hurrying to keep with his long strides.

"Valenis said there's a storm coming." Elbek looked critically into the sky, nostrils flaring as he caught the slightly bitter scent of the snow on the wind. "We'll have to hurry."

They mounted and Alis led the party out through the gates, the gatekeepers waving them on solemnly, no doubt grateful to have their small fires and the sturdiness of the wall against their backs for this night.

The track they took was the same one Dean, Sam and Cas had travelled down from the peaks, the tracks of the creature reportedly seen by the edge of the great boreal forest, north and east of the village.

"What's the difference between a wyvern and a dragon, apart from size?" Dean nudged his mount closer to Alis'.

"Wyvern have only four limbs, hind legs and their wings, the same as every other creature in the world. Dragons have six; forelimbs, hindlimbs and wings. It is said that dragons are not of this world, that they came from the stars, a long time ago," she answered softly, slowing her mare down so that they rode side by side. "Wyvern do have some magic, they are hard to see, especially by day, they can cloud your mind, if you look into their eyes."

He turned his head to look at her, surprised by the emotion in her voice. Usually she was pragmatic, not really given to showing much of how she felt. "How do we kill them?"

"Their armour is mainly on their backs. Underneath, from jaw to pelvis, there are scales, like those of a snake, soft and supple. They are vulnerable there."

She remembered the dead wyvern she'd seen when she had been very young, maybe four or five years of age. The colours had been iridescent, gleaming like a rainbow in the sun. She'd cried for it, for the loss of the beauty and the strength she'd felt in it. Her father had sat her down and explained that the beast had taken two children from the village lower down the pass, a three-year old boy and a four-year old girl. She remembered the look in his eyes, when he'd spoken to her, the fear that he hadn't expressed. He'd seen the remains. She'd still felt the sadness over its death, but had begun then to understand that the life of one thing invariably meant death for another.

Dean watched her face, seeing it soften with some memory, the sorrowful expression altering his perception of her again. He realised that her walls and defences against others were nearly as good as his own.

Alis shook off her thoughts, turning to look at the man riding beside her, hesitating as she saw the expression on his face, an expression she couldn't identify. "Below the head, under the jaw, the scales are softest. You can drive a sword through there, or use an axe and sever the neck."

"What about the acid? How bad is it?" He saw her expression close up again, and told himself to concentrate on the hunt ahead. "Is this armour enough to protect against it?"

Alis shook her head. "No, it's very strong, very quick. You have to stay away from the head until you're ready to make the kill. The acid bites deep, it goes through metal, leather, cloth or flesh with equal ease."

"Awesome," he muttered. He hoped that when he and Sam were actually faced with the thing, it would be more obvious to them what they needed to do. Half the problem was that Elbek and Alis had done this for so long, they didn't remember that he and Sam had never even seen these creatures, let alone gone toe to toe with them. They were assuming knowledge that he and his brother just didn't have.

* * *

The track curved around at the forest's edge, rising and falling over the uneven ground. Dean could hear a rushing noise, some way ahead. He turned to ask Alis about it, and she shook her head, holding a finger to her lips as she drew her horse to a stop and slipped from its back.

He swung off, holding his horse's head as Sam, Lyre and Elbek rode up beside them, dismounting quickly. He caught Sam's familiar grimace as his feet hit the ground. It was taking his little brother a long time to get used to the movements of riding, he thought with a trickle of amusement.

They led the horses along the trail, Alis and Lyre now taking point, Elbek next, he and Sam bringing up the rear. The rushing noise turned out to be a cataract, the mountain creek boiling and seething over sharp rocks as the ravine narrowed tightly and the flow was compressed between its high walls. The sound echoed around them, and the air was filled with a fine mist, chilling and hiding the shapes of things along the edges of the ridge.

A massive tree lay across half of the ravine, bleached out by many winters and summers, its bones gleaming white in the fitful moonlight, and Elbek took their horses and tied them to the lower branches, the animals leery, snorting and flicking their ears back and forth, occasionally stamping a foot.

Alis and Lyre had moved ahead, and Elbek stopped the brothers as they tried to follow, leading them back, behind the horses, gesturing for them to lean close to him.

"The decoys will draw it out. You have to wait, find a place in the rocks to either side of the ravine, until the beast is in the open ground," he spoke very softly, lifting his head slightly and pointing to the flat section of stone and gravel covered ground between the horses and where the defile narrowed tightly. "Then you come in from behind it, you understand? You cannot attack unless the decoys have it fully occupied."

Dean glanced over at Sam. "You ready for this?"

"Sure, why not?" Sam gave him a twisted smile. "Elbek, how big are they?"

"Not too big, maybe twelve to fifteen feet, nose to tail tip."

Dean saw his brother's face paling slightly beneath his tan. "That's gotta weigh, two or three tons."

Elbek shrugged, not knowing the words. "They are heavy; the tail is dangerous, like being hit by a falling tree." He looked from Sam back to Dean. "So, you wait, yes? Until the head is past you, watch out for the tail, make sure the wyvern is fully distracted before you go in for the head."

They nodded and moved away, leaving the village hunter to watch for any other dangers that might be around, heading toward the tight end of the ravine to choose their hiding places. The cloud was breaking up again as the wind picked up, and the shadows behind the rocky outcrops were deep black when the quarter moon shone clearly. Dean watched as Sam ducked into one, disappearing entirely.

He slipped behind a massive boulder, checking to see that he was entirely within its shadow and ran through the meagre information he had about the creature they were about to face. Twelve to fifteen long, four limbs, heavy, fast, vulnerable around the head, which they had to keep away from because the fucking thing spat an acid that would eat through their armour, weapons and flesh in minutes … that was it. He closed his eyes briefly, and sent out a brief prayer to the entity he knew was real but no longer believed in, to keep their asses safe from this monster.

* * *

The noise didn't register at first, under the roar of the river, of the wind whistling now through the trees along the edges of the ravine. A scraping sound, punctuated by odd clicks and rustles. He frowned as it penetrated his consciousness, and leaned out slightly past the boulder's edge.

Alis ran past him, her boots almost silent over the stones, jumping for a high outcrop of granite to his left. There was a high whistling sound and a splat, as if someone had thrown a water bomb at the rock, and he watched as steam began to rise from the side of the stone, and an acrid stench filled the air. From the top of the rock, Alis drew another arrow back to her jaw, releasing the string as she twisted and leapt from the top, landing on her hands and knees behind the rock, a second stream of acid shooting above her.

The roar of pain was shocking, filling the narrow ravine and echoing insanely off the walls, rolling around them as it continued on and on. Dean heard the scrabbling of claw and scale over the stones, and twisted around to the other side of his boulder, glancing at his brother, seeing a sliver of Sam's face just protruding from his hiding place.

The wyvern filled the flat ground between them, an escapee from a fantasy artist's collection, Dean thought. The last time he'd seen something like this, it had been airbrushed on the side of a custom panel van.

The crocodilian head was wedge-shaped, distinct eye ridges running back to a horned and bony plate that protected the back of the neck, where heavy plates, articulated along the muscles running to either side of the spine, covered the creature's long neck and back. The tail was almost the same length as the body, lashing in fury now, like a cat in a rage. From the shoulder joints, long, leathery wings, half folded, supported the front of the beast, its movement ungainly but fast, two long claws protruding from the joint of the wing to support the limb on the ground. The hindquarters were powerfully muscled, sheathed in scales that rippled and gleamed under the moon's light, and at the ends of the long toes, scimitar-like claws gripped the loose rock covering the ground, each claw six or seven inches long.

Dean leaned back against the rock, closing his eyes as his mind struggled with the sight. Twenty seven years he'd spent, training himself to believe in monsters, but still the sight of the reptile behind him seemed to be more fairy-tale than real life.

_Not any more_, he told himself, _now everything's real, werewolves turn into actual wolves, for all he knew vampires might be able to fly and turn themselves into bats, all bets were off the table and he had to get his shit together because in a few seconds he and his brother had to confront that thing and chop off its fucking head._

_Deep breath, deep breath_. He turned his head, looking over to Sam. He saw his brother's gaze turn to him and he nodded once.

They came out from their cover together, Sam running to the other side of the wyvern as Dean watched its tail. He saw Lyre race past the head, her sword clanging as she hit the bony ridge behind the eyes, diving forward, tucking and rolling under the long squirt of acid the wyvern spat at her, and behind the cover of another boulder. He was turning to the head when he saw Alis miss her footing on the top of a sloping rock face, and fall awkwardly, the toe of her boot sliding into a narrowing crevice and catching, slamming her into the rockface as she tried to turn the fall into a roll.

The wyvern's head snapped up, the long mouth opening and he ran for it, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, swinging it up over his head as he leapt, driving it down between the neck plates with his weight over it as he came down. The sword plunged point down, driving through the thick muscles, glancing off the bone of the spine, and pinning the neck to the ground. He didn't see the lash of the thick tail, just felt the impact as it hit him in the back, knocking him into the air, to crash into the rock where Alis struggled to free herself.

Dean shook his head, gripping the girl's arms and yanking her down, her foot coming free of the boot as the wyvern pulled the sword from the ground, its head swinging around to them. Dean shifted the shield across his back and dove on top of Alis, as the spray of acid hit the shield covering them both.

Sam watched in horror as the acid began to eat through the metal. He saw Elbek jumping down from the side of the ravine, his sword in his hand, racing toward the creature.

Reflex kicked in and Sam swung the big axe in his hands, a looping underhand swing, as the wyvern raised its head for another attack. He felt the finely honed blade slice through the soft scales under the jaw, chopping through windpipe and arteries, muscle and tendon and bone as the head flew aside. A spurt of the acid erupted from the neck, and he leapt back, then scrambled over the limp neck and ran for his brother.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Dean had rolled onto his back, and Alis sliced through the leather strap holding the shield to him, the poisonous fumes filling the air around them. She struggled to get him sitting up so that she could pull the chainmail from his body before the acid ate through it and started on the leather jerkin. Sam dropped to his knees behind Dean, gripping the bottom of the hauberk and jerking it upwards, pulling it over his brother's head as Alis and Elbek sliced through the jerkin and the homespun under it, staring at the liquid that had already soaked through it.

"In the river, get him in the river." Lyre screamed at them, and Sam and Elbek took Dean's arms and legs, lifting him bodily and running for the rough river, both men falling in as they dumped him into it. Alis followed them, half-submerging herself where spots and splashes had caught her arms.

The water diluted the remaining acid, the force of it scouring the skin, and the bone-chilling cold forced them out after a minute or so. Dean was unconscious, his skin blue-white from the shock and the cold of the water, his back pitted and gouged by the acid that had gotten through the layers of armour and clothing.

"We have to get him back to the village now. He needs Valenis." Lyre looked at the raw, half-eaten flesh, shaking her head. "Alis, you take him, we'll bring the remains of the wyvern."

Sam shook his head. "I'll take him. He's my brother."

Alis looked up at him, her face pale and drawn. "No Sam, I can go more quickly than you can through the dark, I know the way better. You are strong, you can be of more help here."

She untied her horse and Dean's, leading them over to the men, and pulling the soft bearskin cloak from her saddle. Sam took it from her, wrapping it around his brother, and he and Elbek lifted his limp form over the saddle of his horse, tying him loosely to the saddle, more or less upright. Alis took the reins of the other horse, drawing them up until Dean's horse stood close to hers. She pushed them forward and rode out of the ravine, glancing frequently to the man slumped on the horse beside her.

"Come on, the more quickly we can finish this, the quicker we'll be home." Lyre stared up at the night sky, the cloud was already lowering toward them, the air frigid.

They worked fast, cutting the claws and wings and heart free, flaying off the soft scales that covered the belly, cutting loose the jaws and taking the teeth. Sam sawed and pulled and cut and yanked at the creature's parts, passing them back to Lyre who wrapped them carefully and loaded the horses with them. The effort helped him not to think of Dean, of the terrible wounds, of the lack of medical knowledge in this time. He thought of what Alis had told them. The wyvern had magic, like the dragons. The parts they were taking would make medicines and amulets, protective clothing that could withstand the hydrochloric acid of the creature, and in the case of the belly scales, a vest that would withstand almost any direct attack from arrow or spear or sword. He hoped that what they had gained would be worth what his brother had lost.

* * *

Alis kept pushing the horses down the mountain, one hand on their reins, the other holding Dean's shoulder, keeping him mostly upright in the saddle, her balance automatic and unthinking as she followed the track back down the mountain.

He'd gotten the wounds trying to protect her. She remembered looking up at the wyvern's eye, seeing the head swivel around, the mouth open wide, being unable to move at the base of the rock, her head still ringing from hitting it as she'd fallen, then darkness as he'd covered her body, his breath harsh against her cheek, and the stifled scream as the acid had reached his skin.

It was a serious thing, a blood debt to a stranger. She bowed her head, feeling shame course through her veins, making her feel leaden with fear. Even more serious was the injury to a guest, a guest of the village, a guest of Vasiliĭ's house, under her protection. She would have to pay for that injury, she knew. The thought didn't trouble her as much as arriving at the village with a corpse. So long as he was alive, Valenis would heal him, she knew that, her mother was the greatest healer from the snow in the north to the deserts of the south, and she could heal him, if he lived.

She closed her legs against her mount and the mare obligingly started to jog as they reached the flatter reaches of the upper pastures. Alis closed her fingers more tightly around Dean's shoulder and kept the two horses together as she saw the village fires in the distance.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

* * *

Sam, Lyre and Elbek came through the gates as the blizzard hit, the howling wind and swirling snow reducing their vision to a few yards, the bitter cold numbing their hands and faces, even in the short distance from the gates to the barn. They opened the wide doors and led their horses in, seeing Alis' and Dean's horses already settled in a pen at the far end. Sam and Elbek struggled to close the doors against the force of the storm as Lyre led the horses deeper inside, unloading the wyvern carcass and hanging the sacks from the beams.

The men joined her to unsaddle the horses and rub them down lightly when the doors were secured. Pulling hay from the stack, and dumping it into the pens, checking there was water for their mounts, they left them finally to eat in peace, nothing left to do until the morning.

Lyre was aching with tiredness and the cold, and she felt herself shiver slightly from the delayed reaction of what had happened in the hunt. It was never good to have an injury and that had been one of the worst she'd seen. She followed Sam and Elbek out the smaller postern door, and hurried up the frozen, muddy path to the keep, her eyes almost closed as the stinging snowflakes blew hard against them.

They stopped inside the great doors, stripping off their weapons and armour and leaving it in piles against the walls. Sam stared around the hall, looking for Valenis. Vasiliĭ saw them come in and walked to them, his face serious.

"Sam, my deepest apologies for the injuries to your brother." The leader said when he reached them.

Sam blinked. "Vasiliĭ, no apology is needed. It was unfortunate, bad luck only."

The hint of anger in Vasiliĭ 's face made him turn to look at Lyre and Elbek, standing behind him, their gazes on the ground. He frowned, feeling the gravity of the situation without knowing why. _What the hell was going on here?_ He looked back to Vasiliĭ.

"Is Dean alright? Has Valenis seen him?" A thought occurred to him, filling him with panic. "He's not – he didn't – he made it back alright, didn't he?"

Vasiliĭ nodded quickly, the anger in his face replaced by alarm as he realised Sam's thoughts. "Yes, he's alive, Valenis is with him now. She is a truly great healer, Sam, he will be alright."

"Come, eat, sit by the fire and get warm, you can see him soon." He put his arm around the tall young man, and drew him to the table by the fire, Lyre and Elbek following more slowly behind them.

"Eat, rest." Vasiliĭ gestured to the food. He turned from the table and walked across the hall, stopping next to Torvga, the two men standing close together, heads bent as they talked quietly.

The table held plates and bowls of food, a basket of fresh bread, and Sam sat down gratefully, eating quickly. He looked up as Alis came down the stairs slowly, and walked to where her father and Vasiliĭ were standing on the other side of the room.

Sam watched the three of them, his forehead creasing as he saw Torvga's pained expression, the cold anger in the leader's face, the penitence of Alis' bowed head. He turned to Elbek.

"What's going on?"

Elbek glanced up at the three on the other side and back to his food again. "Alis risked a guest. It was her carelessness that brought the injury to your brother. She has to pay for that injury, and for the insult to you and your brother."

"What?" Sam's head snapped around to look at Elbek. "It was an accident, we all saw it, and it was Dean's choice to put himself between her and the wyvern. And she got him back here, got him to safety."

Lyre shrugged. "It doesn't matter, Sam. For a hunter, one who wants to survive, there are no accidents. There is only carelessness, negligence, recklessness. Alis is lucky, Vasiliĭ is a good leader. At my village, the leader would beat anyone who put a guest at risk."

Elbek nodded, tucking his food into his cheek. "Where I come from, offering or causing harm to a guest, the punishment would be stoning."

Sam started to rise, and felt Elbek's hand on his arm. "Don't, Sam. You'll make things worse for her if you attempt to intervene. She will have a few more chores, that's all."

He sat down again, finishing his food, feeling the fire warming his back, chasing away the cold of the past few hours. When he'd eaten enough, he stood, and walked to the stairs. He needed to see his brother.

* * *

Valenis looked up as Sam came in. Dean lay prone and still on the furs of his bed, the fire built up in the room, the air warm and dry. Castiel slept in his nest of fur and blankets, the angel's soft snoring barely audible over the crackle of the wood in the hearth.

"He will be alright, Sam, in a few weeks." She turned back to the man lying beside her, smoothing a handful of sweet-smelling unguent over his skin, covering the raw flesh completely.

"Is he conscious? Has he been conscious?" Sam walked to her, and sat down near his brother, looking at Valenis, rather than the mess of his brother's back.

"He woke briefly, when we brought him in here. The burns – acid burns are very painful. His body shut down quite quickly, to give him relief, and the salve has many herbs in it, for healing, and to numb his skin, and keep the pain from rising while he sleeps."

He looked down at his brother's face. Dean's expression seemed peaceful. He always looked peaceful when he slept, Sam thought. Younger, without the strain that awake, he seemed to carry wherever he went.

"Alis shouldn't be punished. It wasn't her fault," he said quietly to the healer.

Valenis looked up at him, the corners of her mouth rising very slightly. "Our customs are different to yours, Sam. I think that our lives must be harder than the one you are used to. A hunter who makes a mistake endangers their own life and often the lives of others. In this life, usually only one such mistake is made, and it is fatal, there and then."

She looked back down and took another handful of the unguent from the bowl beside her, spreading it smoothly over Dean's lower back.

"Your brother attempted to save my daughter?"

Sam nodded. "Her boot caught as she slipped on some ice at the top of the rock. He put his sword through the wyvern, pinned it down for a moment or two, but the tail caught him and he ended up right next to her, getting her free. She hit her head on the rock as she fell, he dropped on top of her as the wyvern spat."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "Then there are many errors my daughter made. Not checking her footing for ice, for security. Allowing her boot to become caught. Not freeing herself, not falling correctly." She looked up at him. "It's actually a miracle she survived any one of those errors, let alone all of them."

Sam frowned. "Sometimes you get bad luck, it happens."

Valenis' smiled widened. "There is no such thing as this thing you call luck, Sam. For people to survive, in a land like this, or those that are worse, to the north, one must be vigilant, all the time, aware, careful, understanding of the risks and of the possible pitfalls or traps. If you lack concentration, if you lack awareness … you die."

"It was Dean's choice, to protect her. She didn't ask him." He didn't add that his brother would have done the same thing for anyone, it was how he was wired. He'd have to remember to tell him about this, when he came to.

The healer shrugged. "If she hadn't been careless, he would have had no need."

Sam looked down, scowling. Valenis looked at the expression on his face, her smile wry. She turned back to what she was doing, spreading the unguent thickly over the cleaned wounds.

"Elbek said she would get a few more chores." Sam swallowed his sense of injustice, seeing that he wasn't going to convince the healer anyway, and he didn't want to create any feelings of ill-will between them. "What did that mean?"

"She will have to help your brother to heal. She will be forbidden to hunt for a while." Valenis smoothed out the last edges of the salve, looking down critically. "She will be working in the village for a time, until she learns not to be careless of her own safety, or anyone else's."

Sam sighed. It didn't sound so bad, he thought. Perhaps he was overreacting. "Lyre said that in her village, the leader beat people who risked a guest?"

"Yes, the further south you travel, the more important the idea of a guest, someone under your protection, becomes. It may be a result of the lands that have harsh conditions. I'm not sure, although it is similar where I was born, and that is a harsh land indeed. But in the deep deserts, far, far to the south, if a village invites you to share their bread, they are honour-bound to keep you safe, to protect you at all costs."

Sam thought of the countries she was talking about. Arabia, perhaps, Egypt, what would become Palestine and Jordan and Israel. He knew a little of their histories, but warfare had been more prevalent than the concepts of honour and the protection of people in his lifetime.

* * *

Dean woke slowly, aware that the room was warm, warm enough for him to be half uncovered by the furs on the bed. He opened his eyes, and moved his arm forward to push himself up, his body freezing as pain sheeted down his back, the nerves locking muscles into rigidity with the agony, his heart racing as his chest constricted.

"Don't move."

There was a hand under his shoulder, lifting and easing his arm out from under him as he heard the whispered instruction near his ear. _Too late_, he wanted to say, but couldn't get the words out.

He felt something cool and sticky being spread over his skin, over his back, the touch featherlight, the substance releasing a scent of honey and herbs. Closing his eyes, he thought back to the hunt, remembering his shock at the sight of the wyvern, the fucking thing the size of a car, its deadly speed, and seeing Alis at the top of the rock, falling. He remembered pulling his shield over them when he'd landed on top of her. Remembered the first touch of a pain that'd seemed to be eating through him. That was it.

"Alis?"

"Don't talk, try to keep still," she said, her voice stronger, her hands gentle over his skin. "The wyvern's acid burned your back. Valenis has seen you, you must stay still, let the medicines work."

The pain was beginning to recede. Whatever it was she was doing, it was working, he thought, feeling his body relax little by little. As it slid away from him, he realised he was hungry and thirsty. And he needed to know that his brother was alright.

Beside him, Alis watched the side of his face, easily reading the expressions that passed across it.

"Sam is fine. He and Elbek killed the wyvern, and made it back just as the storm came down. You will have to eat only … ah … soft foods, liquids for a few days, Dean, until you are able to move again."

He felt her move away, the furs under him shifting slightly as her weight was lifted. Listening to the sounds in the room, her soft muttering to his right, the gentle clink of the clay cups somewhere near the table, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, he could feel the pain, still there, at the edge of his mind, but it was distant now, barricaded by whatever it was she'd coated him with. He wondered why she was here, looking after him. Gratitude didn't really seem to be her thing.

The furs dipped again, and he opened his eyes, seeing a cup held in front of his face, a slender hollow reed protruding from it. Alis' hand guided it to his mouth and he drank the warm tea through the primitive straw, the taste clearing the coating from his mouth, soothing the dryness of his throat.

"I will bring you some broth, in a little while," Alis said quietly. "Try and sleep, your body is trying to heal, it needs time."

He rolled his eyes up to her, and saw her look away. She was very subdued, he thought, not even the slightest glint of humour in her face. He'd been expecting some tart comment about getting injured.

The door to the room opened and Dean shifted his gaze cautiously to the pair of over-sized boots, hurrying across the floor to him.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam dropped to his knees next to his brother.

"Sam, he needs to be still. The salve is taking the pain away again, Dean, yes?" Alis looked at Dean as she got to her feet.

"Uh, yeah." His throat was working better, he didn't feel the urge to cough anymore. His back felt numb and cool, from shoulder to the base of his spine. He was tempted to test it, but the memory of the recent attempt was still fresh and he resisted.

"Uh, okay." Sam stretched on the floor beside his brother, their eyes on a level. "The acid that the wyvern spits is a pretty strong hydrochloric compound."

Dean looked at him blankly. Sam sighed.

"Hydrochloric acid is what most creatures, including us, have in our stomachs, to digest food. The wyvern's formula, though, is more powerful."

"That's interesting, Sam, but I don't really care what it is. How bad is it?" He rolled his eyes toward his back. "How long am I out of action?"

"Valenis said it would be a week before you could move at all, without pain." He glanced the thick yellowish grey coating of unguent spread over Dean's back. "The salve she's got on will speed up the healing a lot, and numb your nerve endings to a certain extent. But some of the acid went into the muscles, they'll take longer to heal out from the inside."

Dean exhaled. "Awesome."

Sam shrugged. "You're alive. Another few seconds and you probably wouldn't have made it."

He saw the dismissal of near death in his brother's eyes, and sighed inwardly.

"How are the walls going?" Dean thought about all the jobs he was supposed to be looking after, jobs that meant the safety of the village, the safety of the people in it.

"They'll be finished tomorrow. We'll pack the fill at first light, if the storm lets up."

"This really sucks, you know." Dean closed his eyes in frustration.

For the first time in his life, at least the first time since he was four years old, he felt like he belonged somewhere. Twenty-three hundred years before he'd been born, and not even in the States, but this life, these people, they were all hunters, they all knew exactly what it meant to hunt the creatures of the night, to deal with nightmares, to lose and to win. He realised suddenly that aside from not being strictly truthful about his origins, in another time, another land, he hadn't had to tell anyone here a single lie.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Dean opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "No, I mean it really sucks. These people need all the help they can get, and I can't afford to be out of action for too long."

"They'll manage, Dean. They managed before we turned up." Sam looked at him.

"Yeah, but they didn't have to deal with demon armies before we turned up."

"No."

Sam looked across the room, where Alis sat by the hearth and lowered his voice. "Listen, what you did, it had some consequences."

"What I did?" Dean frowned into the furs. "What do you mean?"

"Alis is under house arrest for putting a guest of the village in danger, for getting you injured." Sam saw his brother's eyes widen and his mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "It's the way it works here, man. They don't regard an accident as bad luck, just carelessness. So no more chivalry, it seems to backfire."

"She would have been killed," Dean pointed out, his voice tight.

"Yeah, apparently them's the breaks." Sam lifted a shoulder, looking at him. "Vasiliĭ apologised to me for your injuries, Dean. He was ashamed that someone from his village had brought you harm."

"That's such bullshit." Dean muttered, understanding the girl's reticence with him now.

"Yeah, but when in Rome, dude. Just so you know."

"Alright, sure." Dean looked over at his brother, not wanting to argue with him. "Did the storm do any damage to the fields?"

Sam shook his head, relieved to be on a safer topic. "No, in fact they seemed pleased about the snowfall on the fields, more moisture for the seeds."

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted slightly. "Well, that's something I guess."

* * *

The storm had been the last of the winter season. The days that followed were bright with sunshine, the air mild and the skies clear. Sam checked that the work Dean had begun was finished, or progressing satisfactorily. He went out with the hunters, Lyre and Elbek, Rascha and Yuri, to the forests every day. They brought back deer and rabbit, pheasant and wild geese, adding to the village's supplies, providing fresh meat for the extra work that everyone was doing. He often saw Ruane, leading the younger women down the river in the early mornings, hunting for the new greens that were beginning to appear.

Castiel was up more now, wrapped in furs and accompanied by Guin or Valenis, he looked over the new defences and spent long hours with Vasiliĭ , planning as much as was possible as they waited for the scouts to return.

In the fields the first shoots of the crops had pushed through the worked soils, misting the ground with a bright green. The village's population had been almost halved in the fight at Black Valley, and many of those killed had been the young men and women of the next generation. Despite the sadness that filled the hearts of those who'd survived, Sam watched them making their preparations for the festivals of the Spring equinox with laughter and determination.

He thought of their life, his and his brother's, of those they'd lost, of their despair at those losses, and silently marvelled at the resilience of the people here. Valenis had been right, he thought. In comparison to the hardships here, their life had been easier. It hadn't felt that way, and he knew that to his brother, it would never feel that way, but it had been.

* * *

Castiel drew the thick fur more closely around him as he looked down the valley. The sunshine was bright but lacked real warmth. Every morning he came out to the watch tower, looking south for some sign that the scouts were returning. The urgency of taking action against the Qaddiysh was throbbing in his bones, through his veins. The longer they waited, the more damage would be done, both to the people living in this time, and to the future.

Guin came up silently behind him, following his gaze down the valley, then looking up at his face, seeing the dark brows drawn together, the deep blue eyes narrowed in worry.

"Casteel."

He turned to look down at her, his face smoothing out as he took in the curiosity in hers. The relationship between them was still comforting, still soothing, he thought, but there were currents he couldn't quite see, sometimes her actions were inexplicable to him.

"Valenis wishes to speak to you, about Penemue." She turned away, moving back to the broad stone stairs. Castiel hurried to follow her, noting distractedly that his vessel seemed to be much stronger now.

Valenis was sitting in the weaver's rooms, using a simple drop spindle, feeding fleece in, the yarn gathering on her lap. She looked up as they entered the room, finishing the last few pieces of fleece, and putting the spindle aside.

"Penemue said that an army is moving, heading north from Sumeria, along the banks of the Tigris. He said that they will pass through the mountains next week, be near the coast in a month."

Castiel sat down slowly, staring at her. "How many?"

She lifted her chin, her eyes worried. "He said he counted thirty thousand men, all warriors, all on horseback."

"Thirty thousand?" Castiel leaned back against the wall. Thirty thousand horse soldiers? Wherever they went, they would massacre the population, or enslave them. He leaned forward, resting his head against his hands as he tried to get past the shock and deal with the information.

Valenis watched him. "There is more, Casteel."

He looked up at her, not wanting to hear it.

"Penemue saw a second army. He said he saw it through the eyes of an angel, in the north, the Western Steppes, gathering along the foothills of the mountains."

Two armies. Possessed horse archers. Led by fallen angels. He sat up and stared in front of him. What possible purpose could the Qaddiysh have for this region, these people. There was the Gate, in Azerbaijan. But no Watcher would have opened it, not even the most corrupt. He shook his head. If not one of the Watchers, who had led the yellow men to massacre the thousands that had opened that Gate? None of this was making sense, he needed more information. He looked down at the floor. He needed to speak with his brothers.

He looked up at Valenis. "I must speak with Penemue, with the Qaddiysh who have not turned against humankind, in the south." He saw her lips compress tightly.

"Casteel, a journey like that, even in normal times, without the dangers that are abroad now, it would take too much from you. You would risk your life this way?"

"At least Penemue." He knew where the Watcher was, in the mountains to the south, the range that separated Georgia from Turkey. "I could ride, I could rest. But I must see him, Valenis. This world depends on it."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps he could come to you?"

"Perhaps."

"I will ask him. Now." She stood quickly, looking at Guin who was spinning the soft fleeces silently at her wheel in the corner. "Guin, please make sure Casteel rests now. Even if his mind will not let him sleep, his body should be quiet."

Guin glanced at the angel, an eyebrow raised. She hadn't had a great deal of success in convincing the angel to do as she asked. He looked back at her, and shrugged. He would not sleep, could not sleep, but to preserve the peace, he would lie down, rest his vessel's body.

Valenis strode from the room, and Castiel looked around, as Guin stood and walked to him.

"She's right, you know. It is a long journey, even when times are good, and a hard one, even in the summer months." She gestured to the bed of straw and fern, covered with soft blankets of woven fleece and furs.

"I am healing, Guin, the headaches have almost gone." He walked reluctantly to the bed, sitting down.

She smiled at him. "Yes, but would you undo that?"

He looked at her as she knelt beside him. "Someone has started something here, Guin. And it will not end with just this war, just these attacks. This is a beginning."

He allowed her to push him gently back, lying down.

"I must know what they are planning. It will affect everything –"

"You must rest, so that when the time comes and we need you to lead us, you will be strong enough." She leaned over him, looking down into his face. His eyes widened slightly.

"Lead you? No, I am not –"

Guin bent forward, her lips pressing against his, cutting off the words. Castiel froze, the sensations of her mouth, of her lips on his wiping out his thoughts, making his heart beat accelerate, his breath come short in his chest. He felt a stirring in his vessel, a point of heat rising up and spreading out.

She lifted her head, and looked into his eyes. "Rest, Casteel."

"Why did you do that?"

"You do not know?" She lifted her hand, laying it against his cheek, looking into his eyes. "Perhaps you don't."

She drew away, getting to her feet. He heard her steps, light on the stone. A moment later he heard the soft whirring of the spinning wheel as she resumed her work. Why had she … kissed him? He could still feel the heat inside of his vessel, heat and an ache, for what, he wasn't sure. His heart was slowing down now, and he could again get air in and out of his lungs, but the ache persisted.

He closed his eyes, tried to remember what he'd been thinking about before she'd … kissed him.

It was gone.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

* * *

Dean sat up slowly, the muscles of his back still twinging if he moved too fast. He wondered how long it would take him to get back to being useful again.

As if she'd read his mind, Alis made a face at him. "It's only been four weeks. You will be fit again soon enough." She looked down at the low table beside her, making sure that she had everything she needed.

Dean followed her glance, uncertain now that this was such a good idea. "You know, I could probably do this myself." He scratched at the beard that had grown in over his jaw and cheeks. It might have been a help in the winter, he thought, but with the coming of the summer, the warm nights and thick humidity, it was a mini torture chamber for his face.

"Stop worrying." Alis turned back to him, helping him to the edge of the table. "You would cut your throat and I would be blamed for not looking after you properly."

He smiled reluctantly at the acerbic tone in her voice. She'd apologised to him, many times now, for putting him into danger, for the injuries he'd sustained on her behalf, and for the first couple of weeks, she'd been solicitous and gentle and kind with him. But as he'd gotten more movement, and less pain, the sharpness had returned to her tongue, and the enforced closeness over the past four weeks was rubbing them both up the wrong way.

"Lean your head back." Her hand reached around to touch his forehead. He tipped his head back, seeing her face upside down behind him. He felt the warm water spill through his hair, heard the splashing as it trickled back into the bowl. Her fingers were light and deft, washing the hair quickly, pouring the clean water through it. He closed his eyes, a little surprised at how good it felt, how relaxing it was, how … intimate it felt. Her fingers moved over his scalp, in small, circular motions and he let out his breath softly, as the slight tension in his shoulders disappeared.

"Don't fall asleep." Alis looked down at him, seeing the softness in his face. He smiled without opening his eyes, missing the scowl that drew her brows together behind him.

He felt her fingers comb through his hair, closing and holding it as she ran the razor sharp knife blade under them, discarding the cut hair held between them. She thought privately he would look better with his hair a little longer, but he'd asked for it to be short, and she was honour-bound to him for another four weeks. The sooner he healed, the better she'd like it, she thought, refusing to look too closely at why that might be so. She pushed his head forward, cutting the sides and back, the blade a hair's breadth from his skin but not touching it.

"Sit up for a moment." She walked around in front of him, and he lifted his head, as she bent slightly, her face close to his, her fingers slipping through his hair as she tried to see if she had cut evenly. It looked about the same as when he'd arrived, she thought, her concentration focussed on the length, missing the way his eyes had widened slightly, his lips had parted.

She straightened up, and put her hands on her hips, looking down at him. "That is done. Put your head back again."

He tipped it back, and heard her take a cloth from the bowl, felt the moisture cover his face, wetting the beard, his cheeks and throat. This was the bit he wasn't so sure about. He'd seen the knife she'd brought, a long, narrow blade that she'd sharpened again, seen her drop one of the cloths over the edge, and the cloth part on the razor fine metal under its own weight. That was sharp. That was very, very sharp. And he was offering his throat to it.

"If I'd wanted to cut your throat, I could have done it anytime." Her tone was dry, and he realised that his doubts were showing on his face. He smiled weakly.

"It's not – just don't make a mistake, okay?"

He heard the loud exhale beside him and closed his mouth. The smell of soap rose to his nostrils as her fingers rubbed through the wet beard, tiny bubbles bursting against his skin. She seemed to be thorough, he thought, or maybe she was as nervous about the next part as he was. _Now there was a comforting thought_.

The edge of the blade slid along under his cheekbone, and he held his breath. It was sharp enough to slice through the hair, not tug at it as it moved, and he felt her fingers stretching out his skin very slowly and gently as she worked down the cheek to his jawline.

All he needed was a goddamned mirror, and he could have done this himself. Sam had told him that although the use and the making of mirrors, of metal or stone, highly polished for their reflective surfaces, was already well known in this time, the habit hadn't really caught on here. He'd tell his brother to get moving on making some pronto.

The blade slid over his soapy skin easily, and he could feel the air, cool against his freshly bared skin, where she'd been.

It occurred to him that the next time he agreed to help out the angel, he should pack some essentials to take with him. Razor, toothbrush, whiskey … he missed whiskey, maybe Sam would know how to make it here? The wine and mead were okay, but they didn't have the impact of a decent proof bottle of scotch.

He lifted his head further as he felt the blade touch the skin of his throat. So many curves there. Alis drew the blade up steadily, stretching out the skin, leaning close now, so that he could feel her breath against his neck. The knife edge moved lightly over the curve of his jaw and she lifted it, looking down as he released the breath he'd been holding with an explosive huff.

"You don't trust me at all, do you?" She rinsed the blade in the bowl, and stropped it lightly over the thick band of leather hanging from her belt a few more times.

"Uh … yeah, sure." He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "Uh, not really, no."

He was surprised to see her smile, a wide, open grin that lit up her eyes and filled them with silent laughter.

"That seems fair." The smile vanished, leaving only a ghost of it in her eyes, that fading too as she moved around him, adding a little more soap to the hair on the other side of his face.

Inclining his head away from her, his skin stretched out and the edge slid over the almost flat planes smoothly. She was moving it a little faster now, he thought, more confident than she'd been on the first side.

He'd seen that smile a few times, but it'd never been directed at him. Elbek got the lion's share of it, he thought, the dark hunter flirting with her at every opportunity. He hadn't really thought about any of the women in the village in quite that way, the realities of their situation taking precedence over any attractions he might've normally felt like indulging.

Alis wiped the soap from the side of his face, frowning slightly as she looked at what was left. The throat, of course, although she felt easier about that, having done the other side. The curves of his chin, and around his mouth, they would be more challenging. She pulled in a breath and wet the cloth again, adding a little more soap to the areas, rinsing the blade and checking its sharpness.

Most of the men in the village, and the surrounding areas had beards. Even for the young men, it was a milestone in their maturity to be able to grow a full beard, and they were forever commenting or insulting each other on the progress or lack thereof of their attempts. She stood in front of him, and lifted the knife, realising abruptly that she was too far away to be able to control the blade with sufficient accuracy.

"Move your legs, I need to get closer," she told him shortly. Dean opened his eyes, and looked at her, standing in front of him. He shifted his legs apart, and she stepped between them, leaning close to his face as she looked at the difficulties his chin presented for the straight edge of the blade.

"Lift your head a bit higher?"

He felt his eyes cross as he tried to focus on her, aware that his heart was beating a little faster, his breath was a little ragged in his throat. She raised her eyes to his.

"Don't move."

He felt the strangled laugh die in his throat. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to.

He could barely feel the edge as it slipped down over his lip, and she moved it along, taking short strips from one side to the other. He drew his lower lip up over his teeth, flattening out the skin and muscle underneath as she shifted her grip and shaved the hair neatly and quickly from the area.

She wiped the soap away and looked critically around his mouth. It was good, she thought, closer to the skin than she'd seen any of the men manage. Elbek preferred to be clean-skinned in the summer, but he just dragged his knife across his face, leaving a prickly stubble, not smooth skin. Just the other side of the throat, and it would be finished. She wondered briefly how often he would have to do this. How often _she_ would have to do this, she corrected herself with another flash of annoyance.

When she finished the throat, she soaked the cloth again, washing the soap from his skin, drying it with a clean, dry cloth. She moved away from him, to the table, and began to put her things away, sliding the long, slim knife back into the sheath that lay against the back of her hip.

Dean eased himself forward, and lifted his hand, running it over his hair, feeling the length, very close to how it'd been when they'd first arrived. He ran his fingers over his face, closing his eyes. The skin was completely smooth, he couldn't remember ever having managed a shave this close before. He'd have a week or so before they needed to go through this again. He hoped that he could convince his brother to cobble up some sort of reflective surface for him before then. As good a job as she'd done, the tension of it really wasn't worth it.

* * *

Valenis looked over the clean skin of his back, her eyes narrowed critically and Dean looked curiously around the warm room as he waited for her verdict.

Alis had brought him to the healer's house for the checkup, and he had to work to keep his face expressionless, because the room, the house, was so entirely a witch's house, he was having difficulty with his automatic reactions. It was a single room, spanning the width of the house. At one end, where they'd entered through the thick-plank door, it seemed fairly ordinary. A wide stone hearth, low table, thick cushions surrounding it, a simple wooden spinning wheel and small loom filled the space. The kitchen area, where he sat, was a different matter. Dried and drying herbs hung in bunches from the low beams that supported the ceiling, another large hearth, the fire lit and warming him, was set in the wall, an iron frame for holding pots and a griddle pushed to one side now. The table was higher, with simple three-legged wooden stools surrounding it. Shelving, built from thick planks, covered the walls, and the shelves were full of baskets and bowls, simply made bundles of candles, dried and preserved food in clay pots, salves and unguents and liquids, the small skulls of several animals, and in the corner, the boiled and cleaned teeth, claws and wing bones of the wyvern, the myriad of scents strengthened by the warmth of the fire here, filling his head.

"Dean, twist to the right, just the body, not your hips." Valenis' voice broke through his thoughts.

He twisted slowly, expecting at least a twinge, surprised when none manifested.

"The other way?"

His back felt stiff but the pain had gone. He felt her fingers move over his skin, some parts he couldn't feel anything, the nerve endings had been cauterised by the acid and wouldn't regrow, but he had enough feeling left.

"Lift your arms, high above your head."

He stretched up, feeling the pull of the muscles and skin in his back. Still no pain. Just the stiffness, of not using those muscles for a while. He heard her stand up behind him, and looked back over his shoulder.

"You are a quick healer." She smiled as she caught his expression. "You may begin training again."

He nodded, glancing at Alis. She sat at the other end of the table, her gaze on the flames in the hearth.

"Take it easy to start with," Valenis cautioned him quietly. "They are very stiff right now." She turned her gaze to her daughter. "Alis, the comfrey and mallowroot salve, you should work that into his back until the stiffness is gone, every night, and any time that the muscles feel sore or strained."

Alis' head snapped up to stare at her mother, then she sighed and got up, going to a shelf and picking up a wide-mouthed clay pot.

Dean looked from her to Valenis. He was okay again, the enforced care was getting old for both of them.

"I can work it out with exercise," he said to Valenis. She shook her head.

"Of course you can, but this will help, it will make your progress faster, easier. And that is a healer's job." She didn't look at Alis, but the tone in her voice was clear.

Great, he thought, another reason for her to feel resentful. He stood up, picking up and pulling his soft homespun shirt over his head.

* * *

Sam sat on the low stone bench outside Torvga's workshop, absently sharpening his sword while he waited for his brother. In three days, it would be midsummer, he thought, and the scouts still hadn't returned. The inability to communicate effectively beyond a few miles was getting to him.

Cas had told them of Penemue's intelligence, the armies gathering to the north and south, apparently hell-bent on taking the mountains for reasons that none of them could fathom. The lands were fertile, but too rocky and too harsh for large populations to be sustainable. The passes through the ranges were unpredictable, could be closed by snow even in high summer. The populations to the north, in Russia and Belarus, the Ukraine and further west, were minimal, and the rich mineral wealth of the region wouldn't become important to trade or economy for another thousand years, when technology was sufficiently advanced to make the difficulty of extracting them from the ground worthwhile.

There was absolutely no reason for this region to be fought over. The only Gate was in Azerbaijan, hundreds of miles to the east, in the rich lands that edged the Caspian Sea. Easier route, easier pickings, understandable target.

He shook his head, looking up as he heard the door to the healer's house open behind him.

Dean walked out, blinking slightly in the bright sunshine. "All good, just stiff."

Alis came out behind him, holding the pot of salve, her face closed and tense, as she strode on past them and up to the keep. Sam glanced at her rapidly retreating back and then back to his brother. Dean saw the question and shrugged.

"Good." Sam slid the sword back into its scabbard, and tucked the oiled stone into the soft leather pouch that hung from his belt. He was slowly getting used to the clothing, having the sword bounce against his thigh whenever he walked anywhere, but he missed the simplicity of his old clothes, the gun tucked into a pocket or sitting in the small of his back.

Valenis emerged a moment later. "Can you tell Casteel that Penemue is almost at Black Valley. He will be here in a couple more days."

Sam nodded. Maybe they would get some answers now.

* * *

Castiel looked at them, seeing the changes in both over the past few months. Sam looked comfortable, at home in this place, he thought, and at the same time, as if he was ready to leave. Dean … Dean he wasn't sure about. The despair that had filled him, in their own time, their own land, seemed to be gone. He couldn't see that anything had taken its place, exactly. The man spent a lot of time with Vasiliĭ, both determined to protect the village to the utmost of their combined ability. Perhaps that streak of responsibility had simply resurfaced here, the angel mused. Perhaps in this land of hunters and monsters, he was finding a place he could belong.

"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." Sam frowned at the table in front of him. "We're assuming that the Qaddiysh are responsible, for the deal with Hell, for opening the Gate –"

"No Watcher, no angel, fallen or otherwise, would open a Gate," Castiel said with certainty.

"That's what I mean, Cas. If one of the Watchers didn't do it, who did?"

He stopped, something that Vasiliĭ had said, when they'd discussed the opening of the Gate, catching at his mind, snagging there, "Vasiliĭ said the force that had opened the Gate three years ago in Azerbaijan were from China, or Mongolia, perhaps. Yellow men, he called them."

Castiel nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, that's what he said."

"The Qaddiysh couldn't have controlled that force. Penemue told you that they didn't turn until after that had happened?" Sam looked at him. "We've been assuming that one or more of them did, but maybe that was a … necessary prelude to what's happening now, and it wasn't them."

"Your speculation is that there is someone else, someone stronger than the Qaddiysh who has been planning this and has control of them?"

Sam's mouth twisted. "Well, yeah. It doesn't sound likely, but it's possible, right?"

"All things are possible." The angel sighed.

Dean looked from Cas to his brother. "Would a witch … or a sorcerer be strong enough to kick start this, control the fallen angels?"

Sam's brow creased. "I wouldn't have thought so."

Castiel also frowned, staring at Dean. "Why do you ask that?"

Dean shrugged. "Alis said something about a black magician, to the north, who'd worked some pretty powerful mojo."

"It would take enormous … mojo … to control both angels and demons." Castiel rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers tiredly. "But I suppose it might be possible. It might explain why the Qaddiysh have become active. They haven't strayed far from the lands they settled since the Flood, and dealing with demonkind … it is extremely risky for them."

"It might explain why these mountains are important," Sam said quietly. "Civilisation has been growing and developing rapidly throughout Asia, the Middle East and lower Europe. The trade routes and the cities they pass through have been growing exponentially. But the north … is barely populated, the people are still quite primitive … if someone wanted more people, bigger populations, greater growth, then a route through here would be important."

"It would be easier to go along the Caspian Sea, or between Georgia and Turkey and across the Black Sea than to force a road through here, Sam," Castiel pointed out.

"Yeah, maybe. But we're not really dealing with a huge logic here, Cas. There's planning and there's power, but it seems more personally motivated to me." Sam looked at the angel. "Maybe it doesn't have to do with expansion or empire-building, but with something else."

Castiel thought about that. It wasn't like the empire expansions he'd seen. Even the enslavement of the demons into the Scythian soldiers had been expeditious rather than a long term strategy. None of the demons could be extracted once bound in. Whoever had created this, had wanted an army that could not be defeated, an army that could not be stopped. For a single purpose. Expendable once the job had been done. Perhaps Sam was right.

"I will speak to Vasiliĭ."

"I've got an hour's training to get through." Sam got to his feet, looking down at his brother. "You coming?"

"Yeah." Dean rolled to his feet. Castiel looked up at him.

"Ah, I'd like to talk to you for a moment, Dean." He looked at Sam apologetically. "Uh, privately."

Dean glanced at Sam, who shrugged and left the room.

"What's up?"

Castiel looked down at his hands, resting on his crossed legs. "I need to know the appropriate response when being kissed."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Someone kissed you?"

The angel nodded. "Guin, a few days ago." He looked up at Dean. "I don't know why, or what I should have done."

Dean ran his hand over his face, hiding the smile that had risen involuntarily, and taking a breath. "Huh."

He looked at Castiel. "I'm thinking that she kissed you because she likes you, Cas. As far as what you should do … that depends on what you want."

"What do you mean?" The puzzlement in the deep blue eyes was genuine, and Dean felt another wave of laughter bubble up in him. He compressed his lips together tightly and waited until it passed.

"Uh, well, we've had this conversation before, Cas. Birds and the bees? Cloud seeding?" He shook his head. "Do you like her?"

"Yes, very much. She's very soothing to be around."

"Soothing? Yeah, okay, that's fine." He leaned toward the angel. "Did you, uh, feel anything else for her?"

Castiel looked away, and Dean grinned. "Uh huh, so you did."

"I'm not sure. There was a strange sensation in my vessel."

The snort came out before he could stop it. "I can imagine."

"This isn't funny, Dean. I don't know what to do."

"Yeah, no, I get that, Cas." He nodded. "You, uh, understand the phrase, more than just friends, Cas?"

"Not really."

Dean sighed. This had been easier when they were only talking about sex. He wasn't sure what the ramifications were in this time of taking someone to bed. Was it like an instant engagement, marriage, kids? Were there contraceptives in this time? He didn't think so.

"Cas, I don't know what the deal is with getting involved with the women here." He realised that this was going to affect him, sooner or later, as well. "We're not staying, and uh, without the usual protection, well, one of the consequences could be pretty long-term."

"Oh, I could prevent conception." Castiel looked at him seriously.

"Oh." Dean blinked. "Well, in that case, why not?"

"So, you're saying that if she kisses me, she wants to be more than just friends. And that I should have sex with her?"

Dean stared at the angel in bemusement. "Yeah. I guess that's what I'm saying."

"Thank you. That clears it up."

"Anytime."

He got to his feet, walking out of the room, not sure if he should be laughing at the angel, or feeling envious.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

* * *

The sky was still light, casting a pale golden luminescence over the valley and the village and the air was warm and still as Sam and Dean leaned on the stone wall of the watch tower, watching the preparations below them for the festival the following evening.

"So, what's the story with tomorrow night?" Dean turned to look at his brother.

"Summer solstice, midsummer's eve. It's a common festival, right around the world, usually related to fertility, for the blessings of the gods for the harvest, for the prosperity of the village," Sam said distractedly, staring at the crowd around the growing piles of wood that would be lit in the night, his eyes searching for one person. "Some places lit, uh, light the bonfires to call the attention of the gods, as a kind of sacrifice. Others light them to keep evil or monsters away from the village for the night," he paused, running a hand through his hair as the past myth segued into their current reality. "And here, that's seems to be the case, since the mountains have a pretty good collection of monsters."

"Alis said that the vamps come in the summertime."

Sam nodded. "The midsummer festival is probably the one time when everyone is outside, easy pickings for vampires. Ruane told me that they won't come to the village, though, only to the woods on the far side of the river." He gestured to the north east, where the woods spread up the mountainside from the valley floor. "There'll be feasting and drinking, it's the night when anything goes, the usual taboos and social proprieties are ignored, or allowed."

Dean digested that, lifting a brow. "That means exactly what?"

Sam glanced sideways at him, the corner of his mouth dimpling. "Tomorrow night, everyone here is probably going to get rip-roaring drunk, and spend the night with whomever they like. In some places, orgies are normal. I think here, it's likely to be more private, but it'll still be a free-for-all."

A slow grin appeared on Dean's face as he thought about it. "Yeah, now that's what I'm talking about."

Sam snorted. "I thought you'd like the idea."

"What about, you know, the social, uh, consequences here, for … you know."

"Not much." Sam looked back down at the activity on the fields below them. "Sex is regarded pretty much as a normal activity. If the couple don't want to get married or form a permanent attachment, or a child is conceived and not wanted, there are herbs to stop the pregnancy, Valenis will give them to the women if need be."

"Oh. Right." Dean looked at his brother's profile, wondering how the hell his brother had acquired that information, turning to follow Sam's gaze back down to the village as he decided he didn't want to know. "Good to know."

Sam smiled. "I'm impressed, you held out longer than I thought you would."

"Man, you're hilarious. It's not like I had a lot of free time –" His attention sharpened suddenly as he saw movement along the track to the south of the village. "The hell's that?"

Sam lifted his head, looking south. "Crap. I think that's one of the scouts. Come on."

He turned and ran for the stairs, Dean looked down a moment longer, watching the skinny horse stumble as it came up the track, then turning to follow Sam at a dead run.

* * *

"Valenis!" Sam shouted as he ran past the smith's workshop, the house. She came out quickly.

"We're going to need you." Sam pointed to the gate, and kept running.

They reached the man and horse a few minutes later on the track a hundred yards from the gates. Sam caught him as he started to topple from the saddle, pushing him back up and holding him there as Dean took the reins and led the horse toward the village.

Horse and rider were bloodied and thin, cuts and gashes crusted over with dried blood, covering both of them. Dean looked at the sharp points of the horse's shoulders and hips, the clear outlines of the ribs. This horse had been well-covered when the scout, Mika, had left. Now it looked like a walking skeleton. Both knees were swollen, and the animal was favouring the near front as well, a long split in the tough hoof wall speaking of very hard ground travelled at too great a speed.

He met his brother's eyes across the animal's neck, seeing the same worry in Sam's face as he felt. Glancing up at the man who sat unconscious in the saddle, he noted that Mika's armour was gone and his clothing had been shredded, even the tough hide vest was in ribbons.

Valenis met them at the gate, and nodded to Sam. He let the man slide into his arms, shocked by the lack of weight of his body, and followed the healer into her house.

* * *

Dean led the mare to the barn, wincing as he saw the raw saddle galls as he lifted the saddle clear. He put her into a free pen, and refilled the water after she drank the full container already there. There was only dull pain in her eyes, and he felt his heart sinking. Pulling an armful of hay from the stack at the rear of the barn, he put it down next to her, waiting until she had taken at least a mouthful. If she ate, he thought, she might recover. He gathered the water and salt he needed to treat the galls, and mixed the solution, soaking each of the raw wounds and drying them. He'd ask Valenis for herbs to keep infection out, he thought, looking more closely at the gouges in the horse's hide, kneeling in the straw to look at the split hoof. Mostly it looked like they'd bled clean, but there was no point to letting a good animal die needlessly.

As he left the barn, he headed up the narrow track to the keep. Vasiliĭ and Cas would want to see the scout as soon as possible.

* * *

Sam laid the man on the bed of furs in the healer's house, standing aside as she knelt beside Mika, her fingers resting lightly on the man's throat. She looked up at him after a moment.

"He'll live. He needs time, food, rest." She looked back at Mika, and Sam turned and left the house, heading for the keep.

He came into the great hall and saw Dean talking to Vasiliĭ and Cas. The Watcher, Penemue, would be here in a couple of days as well. Perhaps they would finally get some of the answers they needed.

Vasiliĭ turned to him as he walked up to them. "What did Valenis say?"

"Mika will live. He needs time and rest, but he'll be all right." Sam glanced at Castiel. The angel's brows were drawn together and Sam could see the impatience to question the scout in the deep blue eyes.

"I don't think Valenis will let anyone talk to him tonight, Cas," he said quietly. "He's still unconscious anyway."

Castiel looked at him, and nodded shortly. "Tomorrow then."

He turned away from them abruptly and headed for the stairs.

Vasiliĭ watched him go, his craggy face thoughtful. "Casteel is worried."

"We all are. We can protect ourselves, even from an army of demons, I think, but not the fields, not the livestock and crops."

The leader nodded unhappily. "There is no point in protecting our lives if we have nothing to live on when winter comes again."

* * *

Alis sat in front of the hearth, her fingers flying as she stitched the cloth she held together, the expression on her face a combination of concentration and frustration.

She lifted her head as Dean walked in, catching his wince as he pulled off the leather vest and dropped it onto the pile of furs that was his bed.

"What have you done?"

He looked at her, hearing the peremptory tone of her voice, and shook his head. "Nothing. Just pulled a muscle."

He watched her lips purse in annoyance, and wished he'd kept silent. The general tension between them had gotten worse, he'd noticed, although he wasn't sure why.

"Lie down."

"It's nothing, it's fine." He walked to the bowl on the other side of the room and dipped his hands into the water, splashing it over his face and neck.

"I saw your face, Dean. It is not fine and this is why I am here."

He wiped his face, looking over his shoulder at her, hearing the annoyance in her voice. "Yeah, well, thanks, but I don't need you to worry about every little bump, Alis, I can take care of myself."

"I wouldn't be here right now if I had any choice in the matter. Until Vasiliĭ says my punishment is finished, I have to be here, and I have to make sure you are well. That is my job." Her voice had risen slightly, brows drawing together. She wasn't sure why he could spark such quick anger in her, taking care of him hadn't been such an onerous chore, but the more time she spent in his company, the more angry she became with him, and the more quickly her irritation seemed to rise.

Dean turned around as her comment cut into him, the mild irritation he'd felt at her bossiness turning straight into anger. "If lo- doing this is such a goddamned _punishment_, why the hell didn't you check your footing before you fell off that rock?"

"I didn't ask you to save me, to take the acid onto yourself!" Her eyes narrowed, her anger flaring to match his. "I didn't want you anywhere near me!"

"Don't worry, that's not a mistake I'm gonna make again." he snapped back at her. "And so far as I'm concerned, you can go as far away as you like."

"There's no place far enough away that I could go from you!"

"Alis!"

They both turned at Valenis' shocked exclamation. The healer stood at the open door, staring at her daughter. "Go and get Kiya, please. Now."

Alis turned away, striding fast past her mother and down the hallway.

"I apologise for my daughter, Dean. She has my temper, I'm afraid, and not the years of experience to counter it."

Dean looked at her, and nodded slowly, turning away. It hadn't been just anger that had filled him, he realised as he walked across the room to the hearth. He shook off the thought that lurked around the edges of his mind. They'd just been together too long, he decided, unintentionally arguing the unaddressed thought. Forced into a closeness that was artificial, that had raised things that weren't real. He'd been in pain, injured, and she'd taken care of him, reluctantly at times but she'd still done it, and there wasn't anything more to it than that.

Valenis watched him carefully. She turned as Kiya stopped outside of the doorway.

"Kiya will look after you, Dean." She gestured to the young woman to come into the room. "She is my apprentice."

He turned around, looking at the girl in front of him. She was pretty, long dark hair falling down her back, large, dark brown eyes watching him curiously. He managed to find a smile for her, and looked at Valenis.

"I'm really okay, I don't need anyone's help, Valenis."

The healer shrugged. "The back is a difficult place to take care of yourself. The stiffness will go more quickly if you have some help." She looked at the set of his shoulders, at the tension in the muscles that ran from shoulder to neck. "You pulled a muscle today, didn't you? I can see it in the way you are holding yourself, Dean."

He stared at her stubbornly. "It'll sort itself out."

"Yes, eventually it will. But don't you want to be fit as quickly as possible? Isn't that what you told me? So that you could get back to your work, yes?"

He wet his lips, staring at her. She had answers for everything, and it was an exercise in frustration trying to argue with her. And a part of him knew without having to be told that a guest honours the household, as much as the household honours the guest.

"Alright. Whatever." He gave in ungraciously, turning away from both women and wishing briefly for a roach-infested motel room where he was on his own. Sam wasn't this difficult to live with.

Valenis smiled. She nodded to Kiya and walked from the room, closing the door behind her, her thoughts turning to her daughter. Alis needed a few strong words, although she had the feeling that her daughter's rudeness had come from feelings she would not admit to.

Kiya looked for the pot of salve, and walked hesitantly to the edge of the fur bed.

"Valenis is right, you know. I can see the tension and soreness in your shoulders and back from here."

He looked at her, looked at her small gesture to the furs beside her and gave up. Spikes of pain were shooting into the back of his head from the fight with Alis, his mind churning over the things she'd said, and the things she hadn't. He dropped down onto the warm furs and put his arms under his head, closing his eyes as Kiya knelt beside him, taking a scoop of salve with her fingers, and starting to work it into his back.

Within a few minutes, he realised that it was helping, it was helping a lot. The knots were dissolving, the tension disappearing, and her fingers were warm and firm against his skin, the pressure just enough to reach the muscle below. He let out his breath in a long sigh, deliberately ignoring the sudden certainty that if he'd let Alis do her job when he'd come in, it would have been her hands smoothing the cream over him. She probably would've kept up the snarky commentary, he thought. Better off without her.

* * *

Sam found Ruane just outside the village walls the next morning. She was gathering flowers, her fingers deftly weaving the stems together to form a wreath.

"Hey."

She looked at him, a warm smile appearing on her face. "You are up early."

"What are you doing?" He looked down at her hands.

"Making an offering. We will be able to tell –" She hesitated for a moment. "– uh, tell our fortunes if we put them on the river tonight."

"You want to know what happens next?" He felt his lips twist up derisively as he sat down beside her. The last thing he wanted to know about was the future. The present was better than the past or future had ever been.

"Yes, don't you?"

"Not really." He sighed and leaned back on his elbows in the soft, thick grass. "Not knowing, I can still have hope of things working out."

She laughed softly. "Yes, I suppose that knowing the future would take away hope."

"Ruane." He sat up, looking at her. She turned to him, brows lifted expectantly.

"Uh, never mind." He shook his head and looked away.

Ruane watched him, wondering what he'd wanted to say, wanted to ask. He had been busy the last few weeks, going out with the hunters, watching over his brother's recovery, seeing that the projects Dean had begun were finished. She had thought, for a little while, that he'd liked her, wanted to be with her, but lately she hadn't been so sure about that.

"Will you be joining us tonight, for the festival?" she asked, tentatively.

"Yeah, I guess." Sam thought of his brother, rearing to get involved with what he'd termed the party to end all parties. He looked at her, swallowing, as a half-formed image rose in his mind.

She dropped her gaze, nodding. "Good. It is a fun night. There will be many women in the village who will be glad of your presence there."

He frowned, remembering what she'd told him the first night they'd eaten in the hall. Was it her way of gently brushing him off? Telling him that she wasn't interested, but there were plenty of others who were?

"Yeah, well …" he trailed off uncomfortably.

She looked at him from under her lashes. He didn't sound exactly thrilled at the prospect, she thought.

* * *

Castiel sat in the thick grass along the edge of the river, looking across the clearing, the tables piled high with food, firkins of wine and the deep golden ale that had been brewed with the remaining stocks of last harvest's barley, stone jugs of Valenis' mead, and baskets of early fruit. To one side of the grassy area, several of the villagers were playing bright music with simple reed flutes and pipes, stringed lutes and drums, many of the villagers adding their voices, strong and sweet, to the instruments. The clearing was full of people, everyone from the village had come out to eat and drink and dance on this most important of nights, of offerings to the gods for prosperity and fertility for another year.

He wasn't sure how to feel about the pagan overtones of the festival, or what his Father might be thinking of him, sitting there in the midst of it. As Guin refilled his glass and he drank more of the rich wine, he decided not to worry about it.

He felt her hand slip into his a few moments later, and looked up at her, rising obediently as she drew him up, following her in bemusement into the copse of trees that surrounded the clearing. Beneath the shadows of the trees, the path was dark, and he stumbled several times, feeling her hand supporting him as he regained control of his feet. The music was still audible but distant when she stopped in a tiny clearing off the path, turning to him and slipping her arms around him.

He looked down at her, the moonlight showing her features, her face tipped back to look up at him. He felt her hand slip around his neck and draw his head down, his heart accelerate suddenly as her lips touched his and he sank with her slowly to the soft ground.

Dean had refused to give him any actual details of what he should be doing physically, but he found that a part of him, perhaps Jimmy's memories, perhaps his own unused and almost atrophied instincts, told him what to do with his mouth, with his hands. He heard a soft moan from Guin's throat as he tentatively kissed down the long curve of her neck, the heat inside of him flaring and spreading faster than he could have imagined possible.

* * *

Sam looked around the clearing for Ruane, his gaze travelling fast enough to avoid eye contact with any of other girls who were watching him from various vantage points around the wide area. He'd managed one dance with the leader's daughter, and then she'd disappeared and he'd had to dance with several others until he could stagger out of the flattened grass circle back to the table, claiming thirst and hunger as an excuse.

He watched his brother stagger a little as he walked into the trees, his arm slung around a girl's shoulders. It was the third time he'd seen Dean come and go from the clearing, each time with a different young woman. The kraken unleashed again, he thought with a flicker of humour.

He felt a hand cover his, and turned quickly, the excuse he had ready dying in his throat as he looked into the laughter-lit silvery grey eyes beside him.

Ruane tilted her head slightly, her cheeks flushed from the wine and dancing, an invitation in the lift of her brow. Sam stood up and followed her down the dark path into the woods, the feel of her fingers curled around his, light but warm, the scent of her skin and hair flowing back to him.

When she stopped, he looked around, the tiny space between the trees just big enough for two people, the open centre covered with a thick layer of soft moss, growing over the ground and the protruding roots of the trees surrounding them. She knelt slowly beside him, her eyes on his, and he sank as well, his eyes closing when he felt her hands slip under the edge of his shirt, pushing it up as they slid up his chest. He thought cloudily of what he'd told his brother, about tonight, about the customs in general. It was all well and good, he thought, until you realised that it wasn't just sex you were looking for, it wasn't just the feel of her breasts under your hand, or the taste of her mouth or the intoxication of feeling her skin as it slid over yours … there was also the longing to be near her, to hear her opinions about this thing or that, to watch the expressions cross her face as she listened, really listened to you.

Sam felt his body clench as her fingers ran over him, the simple lacings and fastenings of their clothes loosening and falling away, the warm night air a gentle caress over his skin. She moved her leg, lifting it over his, and he wrapped his arms around her as hers twined about his neck, the touch of her lips on his mouth flushing him with heat. She lifted herself higher, and he groaned at the sensation of pressure and softness surrounding him as she came down again.

* * *

Dean leaned back against the table, satiated in every way, a slightly smug and deeply contented smile curving his lips as he looked around the clearing. More than half of the villagers had disappeared, into the trees and woods around, he guessed, stretching out against the faint tingle that stirred with his recent memories of the tiny groves and clearings in the forest on this side of the river . He took a deep swallow from the cup of ale he held, his delight in finding that he wasn't going to be doomed to wine for the foreseeable future adding to the overall feeling that this night could easily be the best of his life. He couldn't see Cas or Sam, and he hoped that they were having as much fun as he was, though he had his doubts about that.

He looked up as he heard a step behind him, smiling at the healer as she came and sat next to him.

"You have been exercising carefully?" Valenis asked, almost smiling, one brow arched slightly.

"Taking my time, no sudden moves." He grinned back at her. "All good here."

She nodded, picking up a cup of spiced wine. "It is a good night, we all needed to laugh and have fun, rid ourselves of the tensions of the last few months."

His smiled faded and he looked away from her, drinking another mouthful of ale.

"How do you do it? Lose so many, and just keep going?"

He missed her expression of surprise. "What else is there to do?"

It was a good point, he thought. "I don't know. Don't you feel that it's too much, sometimes, too many good people gone?"

Valenis leaned forward slightly, looking at his profile. "Yes, that feeling is there, for all of us, I think. We do not forget, Dean. But a part of our responsibility to our beloved dead is to live, and to live fully. Not to give up. Not to let despair fill us until we want nothing more than to lie down in the earth with them."

He turned back to look at her as he heard the change in her voice in those words.

She was looking into her cup, lost in some memory, he thought. He was surprised when she spoke, her voice very quiet and deep.

"I was married young, in my home. And I lost my husband and child." She heard his indrawn breath and looked up at him, smiling a little. "You are shocked, but it happens easily here. My mother was a healer, and hers before. I did not want to become a healer. I did not want to spend my time with study and meditation, with the sick and the old and the dying."

She looked around the clearing. "My mother and grandmother had a power, inside themselves. And they healed. I have that power too," she glanced at him, a small, slightly mocking smile on her lips. "You would think of me as a witch now, yes?"

He shook his head. If she was a witch, she was unlike any he'd met. She worshipped no one.

"I pretended that I did not have it. I turned my back on who I was, to become something else, something I thought I wanted to be." She sighed softly, lifting her cup again and swallowing the wine. "When they were killed, and I had buried them, I left. It took a long time … a long, long time before I started to become the person I was born to be. But I did. And I found that living, feeling love for people, getting up and trying again, these things healed me, not grief, not despair, not anger."

He was silent, and she reached out, touching his hand lightly. "It can take a long time to learn who you are meant to be. But it happens, whether you will it or not."

He nodded slightly, and looked around the clearing again. He didn't want to spoil the night with a conversation like this, not now. Valenis watched him put the thoughts aside and leaned back, sipping at her wine.

He'd looked over the people still eating and drinking twice before he realised that he hadn't seen Alis once through the night, not even earlier, before people had started disappearing.

"Where's Alis?"

Valenis looked at him. "She is at home. She was not allowed to join in here tonight."

"That's harsh, isn't it?"

"Punishment is not effective if it doesn't hurt somewhat," she said softly. "As a girl, I had the same trouble. She'll live."

He looked down into his cup. He had managed to not think about the fiery, redhaired girl the whole evening, but he hadn't wanted her to miss out on what was obviously the highlight of the year in the village either.

He looked up as a hand extended itself into his field of vision. Kiya stood in front of him, smiling.

He put his cup down and got to his feet, nodding to Valenis as he took the girl's hand and followed her out of the clearing.

Kiya led him down the twisting dark path to a space between the trees, and turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and lifting her mouth to his. He kissed her, feeling desire spark slowly again as his hands explored her body, feeling her answering arousal in the hardness of her nipples, the wet heat between her legs. The grass was thick and soft, and he lay over her, looking into her eyes, dark and half-closed, as he slipped into her velvet warmth. His eyelids fluttered shut at the familiar sensations, the languid ache that filled him, the steadily building vortex of pleasure that fluxed through his body, out to his limbs, but it wasn't a pair of dark brown eyes he saw against the blackness of his closed lids as he quickened.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

* * *

Castiel and Vasiliĭ sat on the broad stone parapet of the watch tower, watching the pale colours of dawn fill the sky against the rim of the enclosing mountains. Both men had shadows under their eyes, the previous evening's festivities, activity and lack of sleep having taken its toll. The air was still and cold and they shared the last few glasses of mead from the stone jug that Vasiliĭ had brought with him.

"What do you know of a mage or sorcerer, in the north, Vasiliĭ?" Castiel turned to the man.

Vasiliĭ bowed his head for a moment, then looked up at the angel. "My father told me of a mage, said he lived far to the north, where the ice and snow lie on the ground for a long time each year, and where the sun does not set in the summertime, and barely rises in the winter months."

Castiel's brows rose slightly as he thought of the latitudes where that occurred.

"My father said that this man had lived for five hundred years, when he began to poison the lands around with his magic and his spells." Vasiliĭ raised his eyes to Castiel, shrugging slightly. "I thought it was a tale, as old men tell them around the winter fire, to scare the young. Five hundred years … it is impossible."

"And then you learned of the Qaddiysh?" Castiel's eyes narrowed as he watched the leader's face.

"Yes." He exhaled noisily and rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. "And I wondered."

"The tale was that this mage had made a pact with the Lord of the Underworld, to do his work in the world of men, and for that he would live forever. The region is very harsh, not many people live there, in such hardship, but those who were born there are used to it, and do not leave. At first, people began to disappear. My mother was born in the taiga, far to the north, and within a hundred miles of this mage's land, and she told me before she died that it was true, that people had disappeared and never been found. That strange monsters and evil spirits roamed the night and the darkness, and took travellers, even attacked villages from time to time. She believed, Casteel."

"What happened?"

Vasiliĭ shrugged. "After a time, I suppose the villagers thought it was better to fight and die, than live in fear. They gathered together and marched on the mage's home. They never found it. Several years later, some people came out of the mists that had descended on the area, without their memories, without their wits. No other returned."

"No one knows if the mage was destroyed or not?"

"No one would search for the truth after what happened, my friend. My mother told me that the mage had gone to a land of fire and ice, of darkness and light. She had seen it in a still, dark pond at the end of that summer of death. It sounded like a tale. A fantastic tale for children." The big man shrugged slightly.

* * *

"Dean, get up." Sam looked at the heap of coverings over Dean's bed.

"Go away."

"Come on, Vasiliĭ and Cas are waiting for us." Sam pushed his foot against the lump he could see.

There was silence from the pile of furs. Then Kiya peered out at Sam, blinking slightly in the brightness of the morning sun reflected from the pale walls.

"Oh." Sam smiled awkwardly at the girl and turned away. "Dean, seriously, man, you have to get up."

"Yeah." His brother's voice was muffled from deep within the furs. "In a minute. I'll be right out."

Sam exhaled gustily and walked out of the room.

* * *

They walked down the broad stone steps fast, crossing the square. Sam glanced at his brother, his mouth twisting slightly.

"You know that having Kiya in the room is different from what happened last night, right?"

Dean's stride faltered and he looked sideways at Sam. "No. What's different?"

Sam shook his head. "Different everything. Midsummer's Eve is a special occasion, once the sun comes up, it's all over. And the trysts are outside, not where you live."

"Huh. Well, thanks for sharing that when it's too late," Dean said, glancing back at the keep briefly. "So what does that mean?"

"I'm not sure, but it might mean you're not single anymore."

Sam lengthened his stride and knocked on the door, nodding to Valenis as she opened it wide to let him pass. Dean followed him slowly inside the healer's house.

Mika lay back against the pile of furs, looking at Vasiliĭ and Castiel. He raised his eyes to Sam and Dean as they walked closer. The scout was eighteen, and already his face held enough pain and suffering for a man of forty, Sam thought as he sank down near the angel.

Dean looked around the warm room. Vasiliĭ, Castiel and Valenis were seated around the bed. He couldn't see anyone else and he sat next to his brother, ignoring the impulse to keep looking, forcing himself to focus his attention on the young man lying there.

Mika was still pale, his hands trembled against the woven blanket that covered him. His voice was hoarse and cracked as he stumbled haltingly through his account.

"Going south, it was clear. We told the villages what had happened, told them how to build their defences, to get salt and iron." His gaze flicked to Dean briefly, his face twitching with some memory. "We had reached the lower peaks, when we saw the first scout party. They were about one hundred strong, all men, all archers. After that, we saw many others, and the villages further south told us about many others, not attacking, not all the time, but creeping through the valleys, hiding and moving north slowly. That was when I turned back, and Denya kept going."

Castiel kept his gaze fixed on the young man's face. "Did you see any of the leaders?"

Mika nodded. "The last group, before we split up, there were maybe four or five smaller parties that had joined together, made a base camp on the eastern end of the pass. We saw a very tall man there. He – he had long golden hair, like a woman's. He was directing the soldiers; they all came to his tent, to report in."

Dean watched Castiel lean forward, his body stilling. Vasiliĭ glanced at the angel, then turned back to Mika.

"Where did you run into the group?"

"Three hundred miles south of here. They were close by the Endless River, moving north. I do not know how they discovered me, I was never close to their encampment." He looked up at the leader, his eyes wretched. "In the night, I had a dream. I saw the leader in it. It was after the dream that they started to chase me, and I went east, not wanting them to know where I was from or where I was going. I thought I would lose them on the gravel plains, the scree spills." He dragged in a deep breath.

Dean frowned as he listened to the boy's recounting of the nightmare chase that had ensued. No matter which way Mika had turned, the demons had remained always a few hours behind him, harrying him through worse and worse terrain, tracking him somehow across rock and through water, over the mountain peaks and through the steep-sided forests, never giving him time to rest or eat, or his horse to forage. The demons had followed the scout as if he'd been marked.

"Nika fell, and I too, and the demons came on us." He looked down at his hands, thin and nicked and twisted from the battle, from the journey. He couldn't explain to them those endless moments when he'd thought he would die. Couldn't relive the soul-deep horror of seeing the demons looking out at him through the eyes of the possessed men, or the things they had said to him. "I would have died there, I think, if not for the blood metal. It killed them, all of them." His eyes met Sam's, a mute gratitude in them and Sam nodded a little uncomfortably, his gaze dropping.

"I stayed on the eastern slopes until I thought I was far enough north to risking coming into the mountains again."

Vasiliĭ closed his eyes. There were no passes to the east of them. Mika must have led his horse over the peaks. Even in mid-summer, those peaks were covered in ice and snow, and the terrain was treacherous with bog and scree and rotten ice. He reached out, his huge hand lying lightly over the young man's.

"You did well, Mika. You must rest now, and get back your strength."

He nodded uncertainly. "Is Nika all right?"

Dean cleared his throat. "She was eating. I think she'll be all right." She might be lame from now on, he thought, but a mare could always be useful, her strength would produce good foals.

Castiel looked at Mika. "In your dream, can you remember what the man with the golden hair looked like? Can you describe him?"

Mika closed his eyes. "He had very smooth skin, like a man of few years; it was very pale, almost shining. His eyes were amber, like a wolf's, and long and narrow in shape, like the men from the east. He had a mark, a tattoo or maybe a brand, on his forearm." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. "It was … strange … like a child's drawing, just an outline. It was a tree, maybe an oak, with a big, even canopy."

Castiel nodded, and Sam saw that his face had paled. "Thank you, Mika, that is very helpful."

As the men stood up and turned away, Alis walked slowly from the shadows of the doorway to the back of the house. Dean hesitated when he saw her, but she kept her gaze on the bowl she carried, and he finally followed Sam to the door, turning his head to watch her sit next to Mika, her back to him.

* * *

"The leader Mika described," Castiel began as they sat at the table close to the fire in the hall, "is Kokabiel."

Dean glanced quizzically at Sam, who shrugged. "I'm guessing from your tone, this is relevant?"

Castiel looked at him. "Very. Kokabiel was very highly ranked in Heaven, before he chose to Fall. He was the liaison with the underworld, and had in his personal command over three hundred thousand demons to do his bidding."

"Ah." Sam leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Yeah, that certainly has relevance."

Castiel's lip curled. "I'm glad you think so."

Dean looked at him. "How does that fit in with a sorcerer being in control?"

"If anyone could gain control of Kokabiel, could use him and force him to do their bidding, they could control the demons in his command. Kokabiel will be the one who has bound the demons into the Scythian armies. He will be the one who is controlling them." Castiel sighed, leaning on the table. "I spoke to Vasiliĭ about the sorcerer to the north."

"And?"

"He confirmed that there was a tale of such a man. But he had only heard the account from his father and mother. He had no corroborating sources about him."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "We're not likely to get any, you know, not in this time."

"Did he say where this sorcerer was?" Dean looked from Sam to the angel. "If we can find him?"

"He said that he was far to the north, where the sun doesn't set in the summer, and doesn't rise in the winter."

Sam nodded. "Above the Arctic circle then." He looked at the angel. "That still leaves a lot of countries to cover."

"Yes."

"Cas, how could the demons follow Mika, over rock and through water?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked away. "I told you, Kokabiel was the liaison between Heaven and Hell. He was also responsible for choosing the souls that were damned. He had – has still, I suppose, a ring that marked the soul so that the demons could claim it. If he appeared in your dreams, then you would be marked and there was no escape."

Sam looked at his brother. "Do you remember how to make dreamcatchers?"

"Yeah. We need gold wire." Dean shook his head, looking at Castiel. "Seriously man, you guys have too much goddamned power."

"Yes, I believe that to be the case as well," Castiel admitted uncomfortably.

Ruane came into the hall, looking around and seeing them, headed for the table.

"There is a visitor in the square, asking for you, Casteel."

The angel got up quickly and followed her to the doors. Dean and Sam exchanged a glance before standing and walking after him, through the doors and down the trail to the square.

* * *

Castiel looked at the man standing in the midst of the muddy village. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, the traveller wore a long, hooded cloak, mud-soaked and worn. He leaned on a staff of a dark wood, the top of it curiously carved into an elaborate filigree.

"Penemue. It's been a long time."

The man turned to look at the angel approaching, and lifted the edge of the hood back from his face.

"It has, Castiel. I was surprised to learn you were here." The Watcher's voice was deep, a bass range with a rich timbre.

"I was surprised to be here, my brother." He turned slightly, gesturing to the two men who came up behind him. Only Sam met the Watcher on his own eye level.

"This is Dean and Sam Winchester. They … ah … have travelled with me."

The Watcher inclined his head, the sunlight gleaming on long black hair, lighting the bright blue eyes that watched them.

"And Vasiliĭ, the lord of Deep Ice village." Castiel made the introductions as the leader walked up to the much taller man.

"You are welcome in my house." Vasiliĭ said, his hand enveloping the Watcher's. "Come, eat and rest. It is a long journey you have made."

"My thanks, Lord Vasiliĭ, I am grateful for your hospitality." He glanced at Castiel as the angel turned and fell into step with him.

"What happened to you, Castiel?"

"It's a long story, better told over food and drink." The angel looked at the broad back of the village leader ahead of them, adding in a lower tone. "I have no power, Penemue. I am as a mortal now."

* * *

Sam looked at Penemue as the Watcher ate. Was this a vessel, he wondered, or the angel's physical form when he'd fallen? He was tall, taller slightly than himself, Sam thought. That seemed unlikely for a vessel in these times. His face was unusual, a mix of genetics that seemed to come from several races. The wide cheekbones and forehead and aquiline features appeared Caucasian, in the modern sense of the word, he clarified to himself, but the deeply tanned skin and black hair seemed more southern, Middle Eastern or Mediterranean. The man's eyes were the bright blue of a clear desert sky. The dark winged brows and long dark lashes seemed also not to match the rest. Could angels take on a physical form when they fell? He'd have to ask Cas later.

"So you didn't see what happened to Kokabiel and the others?"

"No, I became aware that they were changed only after it happened. And I have not been able to contact the others since. There is some kind of interference preventing clear communication between us now."

"How is it that you could communicate with Valenis?" Castiel sipped his wine, frowning as he tried to think of anything that could prevent angels from seeing each other, speaking with another.

"That was through the medium of water. It is a fickle conduit, water, but when it does decide to work, it is at least clear." Penemue wiped the remaining sauce from the bowl with a hunk of bread.

"Penemue, what could have changed the line of destiny?" Castiel leaned forward across the table, staring at the Watcher. "How could that have been done?"

"There were a set of linked prophecies, Castiel. They were envisaged and written down by a man, long before the Flood." He sat back, closing his eyes. "The first was about a creature of darkness, who saw how to propitiate the Fates into changing the lines of Destiny. It required a special sacrifice, a living sacrifice. The second was a vision of three angels, bound and controlled, raising an army of the dead to scour the land in search of a man who'd been born of angel and demon."

Dean glanced at Castiel, as a deep frown pulled the angel's brows together.

"I didn't find out what the third was, exactly, only that it had to do with Lucifer, at the end of his time of punishment." Penemue opened his eyes, and looked at Castiel.

"I think Azazel found the prophecies originally. Before he was killed and Lucifer convinced God to send him to Hell. He told some of it to the others, although I'm not sure who. We found his writings, after he was … taken. He wrote that one day Lucifer would be raised, would be free to walk the Earth again in a living man."

Castiel shook his head. "That was prophesised in Revelations –" He stopped as he saw Penemue's puzzlement, abruptly remembering that Revelations was still to be prophesised, in the far future. "Something I heard about, in Heaven."

"In any case, Lucifer's time is not yet over," he added.

"That viewpoint depends on when you consider the war in Heaven was won." Penemue shrugged. "He was supposed to have been imprisoned for a thousand years, Cas, from the ending of the war."

"Yes, well the war finished when he was thrown into the Cage," Castiel said.

"Not necessarily. Think of the infighting that went on for afterward." Penemue watched his brother's face. "Think of the infighting that is still going on."

The angel shook his head. "That isn't war, Penemue."

"That's semantics, Cas." He glanced at the humans sitting at the table with them. "In any case, at some point, those prophecies were told to a man."

"The mage?"

Penemue nodded. "I heard about him from Alexander, and before him, from Cyrus, in Persia. They had both tried to find him, sending parties deep into the north, and failing. He was supposed to have been able to raise the dead, to create hybrids of men and beasts …" the Watcher shrugged, spreading his hands, "Since he was never seen, there were all manner of tales ascribed to his powers."

"But one of the Watchers told this mage about the prophecies?"

"Yes."

"Do you know which one?"

"No. But it seems highly likely it was one of the three, and I would think that Samyaza would be the most obvious candidate. He was right on the lunatic fringe with the Lightbringer, you know."

Castiel nodded slowly.

Vasiliĭ looked from Penemue to Castiel. "How can this man still be living?"

Penemue looked at the leader. "That is indeed the question, my lord. Cyrus said that the sorcerer had made a pact with the Lord of the Underworld, Hades, to do the god's work on earth in return for eternal life."

"Yes." Castiel glanced at Vasiliĭ. "That is the tale that is told. But there is no such lord of the underworld," he added, shaking his head.

"No. But there is Lucifer, whispering through the bars of his Cage," Penemue responded dryly. "And the sorcerer has lived long beyond the span of mortal years."

* * *

Castiel slipped into the weaver's rooms once the meeting was finished, finding Guin seated at the loom, her fingers moving fast across the strings of the simple machine.

She glanced up as he walked to her, setting the yarn in place and standing up.

"You look unhappy, Casteel." She slipped her arms around his neck and the angel bowed his head slightly, his arms going around her waist, the comfort of being close to her, of feeling her support, easing the worries that had filled him since he'd left the Watcher to rest. There were benefits to living a mortal life, he thought, in the warmth of friendship and the comfort of touch.

"Penemue had information for us, none of it good." He straightened, and looked down into her face. "I will have to leave, Guin. I will have to go south and speak to the other Watchers, find out what they know."

Guin felt a stab of fear in her chest. "What did Valenis say about that?"

Castiel shook his head. "I haven't told her."

He saw her eyes widen and he shrugged slightly. "She will not approve, but there is no choice now. It seems that the sorcerer in the north is orchestrating these events with the intent of raising Lucifer."

"Who is Lucifer?" She searched his eyes, seeing fear in them, not understanding it.

Castiel took a deep breath as he thought of how he could explain the threat of the fallen angel without going into the whole, sorry story. "He is the King of the demons, the King of Hell."

The sound of her sharply indrawn breath was loud in the quiet room. "When will you go?"

He smiled at the question. Of all the people he would have to tell, he had known she would accept it, would not burden him with her fear and doubt, would be practical and pragmatic about the reasons for his decision. He bent his head and kissed her, feeling the heat and what he now knew to be desire rising through his vessel, the ache that was part a longing to be close to her, to be connected to her, and part the remembrance of the strange almost-dying sensation of his vessel's climax inside of her. Guin returned his kiss demandingly, welcoming the rush of arousal to drown out the other emotions that crowded her throat and chest.

* * *

"So, we've got a sorcerer who's been around for maybe five or six hundred years, having made a deal with Lucifer to be his earthly agent, who has somehow found a way to derail Destiny, change the path completely, open a Gate to Hell and release thousands of demons, control three fallen angels and is doing all of this with the intention of bringing Lucifer back to Earth in the body of a man, who is supposed to have been conceived by an angel and a demon?" Sam looked at his brother. "That about cover everything?"

Dean rubbed his hand over his face, turning away to look over the valley as they leaned on the watchtower wall. His head felt as if it was going to explode. Angels and demons. Lucifer rising, no matter what time or continent they escaped to. And in this time, the demons could really run riot on the place; at home someone would call in the Army, or the Air Force, or even the fucking National Guard if they saw a private army marching somewhere.

After the meeting he'd gone back to their room, wanting some time alone to think about what they'd just heard, and the other problems. Kiya had been waiting for him, and he'd discovered that Sam's speculation about her thoughts on the matter of being attached had been right. He'd had a hard time getting her to leave, and the hurt look she'd thrown him as she'd walked from the room was still making him feel like a douche. Once she'd gone, he still hadn't been able to detangle his thoughts, and the effort and time he'd wasted on it was rankling.

"Looks like." He pushed the churning, unresolvable mess aside, concentrating on the thing that had caught his attention about the prophecies. "What the Watcher said about the prophecy – a man born of angel and demon – you believe that? I would've thought that it would be impossible for a demon and an angel to get it on?"

"Yeah, well, maybe not." Sam turned around, leaning against the wall. "We still don't have enough information, you know."

"Yeah, I figured that."

"I think Cas is going to want to talk to the other Watchers," Sam said, glancing sideways at Dean.

"In … Palestine? Or Jordan? Or wherever they are? That's a long walk."

"Yeah." Sam nodded, thinking of the distance, and of the terrain. "About two thousand miles, given the route."

"That's going to take months."

"Yeah." Sam turned back, looking at Dean's profile. "And one of us is going to have to go with him. We can't afford to let anything happen to him, not if we want a ride home."

Dean looked down at the rough stones that made up the parapet of the tower. He nodded slowly. "I know."


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

* * *

Sam hurried down the track to the fields, glancing up at the height of the sun over the ridge to the west. He had about an hour before he had to get back for evening training. He saw Elbek down near the river, washing in the shallow rapids with Alis, Rascha, Lyre and a few of the other hunters, and lengthened his stride.

"Sam, what news from Casteel's guest?" Lyre called out to him, stepping out of the shallow water, and reaching for her shirt.

"None of it good." Sam slowed down as he reached them, his expression souring. "There are two armies marching this way from the north and the south. We might get squashed between them."

Alis looked up slowly, exchanging a glance with Lyre.

"Can I talk with you, Elbek?" He looked at the dark haired hunter. Elbek nodded, walking out of the river and pulling his clothing over his damp skin. He shook back wet hair as he buckled his belt, and collected his bow and quiver.

"I'll see you tonight." The hunter turned and called to the others.

Sam walked up the track with Elbek slowly. "I need to know about something, that, uh, happened after midsummer's eve."

Elbek's mouth widened into a slow smile. "I heard about you and Ruane, my sister hasn't stopped talking about the fact that you didn't spread your favours around."

Sam shook his head. "Ah, yeah, well … actually it's about Dean."

"Ah, yes? He was much more diplomatic with the girls."

"Yeah." Sam stifled a snort. "After sunrise, if you take a girl from the woods to your home, is there any … meaning to that? For the girl, I mean?"

Elbek stopped, brows rising as he looked at him. "Of course there is. What happens between dusk and dawn is an offering to the goddess. After dawn, to take a woman to your home, well, that's a … a promise."

Sam felt his heart sink slightly. "What kind of promise?"

Elbek shrugged. "A handfasting promise. That you will be together for at least a turn of the seasons, live together."

"As in an engagement?" Sam's eyes widened slightly. "A promise to marry?"

"Well, if both parties are not happy by the end of the year, then it can be dissolved, but yes, I suppose it would be a promise to marry. You wouldn't invite a girl to share your home unless you were pretty sure you wanted to marry her."

"That's just great." Sam ran his hand sharply through his hair as he started walking again.

"Dean asked one of the girls to his home?"

"Kiya." Sam looked down at the ground. "He didn't know, uh, about the custom."

Elbek nodded, clearing his throat. "Kiya is a fine woman, she will make a good wife. And mother. And she's a healer, nearly as talented as Valenis, I've heard."

Sam looked at the hunter sharply. "I thought you were pretty keen on Alis?"

Elbek looked over his shoulder, back down to the river. "Alis is like a fire. She is beautiful and dangerous and burns hot, but she is not who I would ask to share my hearth." He looked back at Sam, with a faint shrug. "She was nearly married two years ago, a man from a village to the west, near the sea. He took the marriage gift, and left in the night and I think he stole her heart at the same time. She has not had much interest in loving anyone since then."

Sam looked down to the river, watching the red-haired girl standing a little further from the others.

"Now, Kiya, she is sweet and gentle, and knows how to make a man feel cared for." Elbek looked down, and Sam looked back at him, catching the faint wistfulness in his voice.

"Why haven't you asked her before now?" he asked the other man curiously.

Elbek looked up at him with a rueful smile. "I did not realise that I thought about her like that until she went with your brother on midsummer's eve and did not come back."

"Uh huh." Sam nodded in understanding. It was a fairly universal trait to not know what you want until you could no longer have it, no matter when or where.

* * *

Despite the number of people in the large square room, it was silent after Castiel's announcement, the only sound the crackling of the wood burning on the hearth.

"No, you cannot go, Castiel, you are not fit enough to make a journey like that." Valenis' voice was uncharacteristically loud as she stared at the angel.

Guin stood beside Castiel, her fingers laced with his, looking at the healer. "Valenis, it is not your decision to make."

Valenis scowled briefly at her friend. "And you, you should be telling him that he is not fit to go."

"It is not my decision to make either." Guin shrugged. "We are in times of peril, and each must do as they can, not what you or I would have them do."

"Then I will go with you." Valenis looked at Castiel. "I have travelled that way before, and I can at least ensure that you do not over exert yourself."

"No." Vasiliĭ stepped forward, shaking his head. "No, you may send another healer, Ruane or Kiya, but you will not make this journey, Valenis. War is upon us, and you are needed here."

For a moment, it seemed that the healer would argue with the leader, but she dropped her gaze and nodded reluctantly.

Vasiliĭ turned to the angel. "You will need protection."

"I'll be going with him," Sam spoke softly, glancing sideways at his brother as he did. Dean hadn't been happy about it, but he couldn't argue against it. Sam knew more about the customs of the lands they would be travelling through. And Dean was needed at Deep Ice, two armies approaching, and his sense of responsibility to the people here, their friends, already too strong to abandon them.

"Rascha will go as well. He knows the country beyond the mountains." Vasiliĭ nodded. "You will need horses but we cannot spare enough for remounts. It will slow you down, but perhaps make it easier to avoid the Scythians that come through the passes to the south."

Castiel inclined his head. "Thank you, Vasiliĭ."

"When do you leave, my friend?"

"In two days', I think." Castiel glanced at Penemue. "It will take us nearly three months to reach the desert. We might have a chance to get back before the armies reach you."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "It will take them longer to bring their armies through the mountains."

* * *

"Ruane, this is going to be a dangerous journey." Sam looked at her stiff shoulders, the shadows cast by the soft glow of the oil lamps making the tension obvious.

"Valenis has only two apprentices, Sam. And Kiya is now handfasted to your brother. Valenis will not make her leave him." She turned to him, looking up into his face. "And I would go with you."

Sam chewed at the corner of his lip. She was right. There was no one else. She wasn't a hunter, but like all the people in the village, in this time and this life, she was familiar with the bow and sword, she could hunt and protect herself. And Dean's unthinking action of midsummer eve had backfired on him in the worst way possible way. Sam had been surprised at the philosophical way his brother had taken the news. It had only been later, thinking about the situation he was leaving, that he'd realised that Dean didn't think he'd still be alive in a year.

Sam looked around the room. It had been changed subtly in the last two days, his few belongings and Cas' were packed in the hide saddle bags, and Kiya had already brought her possessions here, the spinning wheel that every woman in the village seemed to have, combs carved from wood and bone laid out, bright blankets that contrasted sharply with the dark-coloured furs spread over the bed, now made large enough for two.

Ruane had spread out the pots and jars and bags of medicines that she and Valenis had deemed necessary for the trip, and was packing them methodically into her saddle bag. He looked again at the small packets of dried herbs, wrapped tightly in their near-translucent wrappings, that looked so much like plastic, but were, in fact the stomach linings of rabbit and vole and sheep.

Instead of her usual soft-woven dresses, Ruane wore the close-fitting hide trousers and vest that were the preferred dress of Alis and Lyre. Under the vest, she wore a homespun shirt in its natural faint beige colour. Her feet were in boots, the flexible leather laced tightly around her calves. A sword hung to one side of the double-wrapped belt, a long, slender blood metal knife on the other, both lying flat against her body. A second, smaller black bladed knife was tucked into a sheath sewn into her boot.

Sam looked at her, a part of him sorry to see the gently-spoken woman dressed like a warrior. He'd always been partial to girls who needed his protection, who looked to him for strength. He shook off the thought impatiently. They were embarking on a trip that would cover thousands of miles through hostile and strange territory, most of which they would have to avoid other people, and live off the land as they went. Making sure they all made it through would be enough of a burden without adding to it.

* * *

Dean walked out of the keep and down through the gates, turning south and following the road past the barns and storehouses that were used through the summer months, past the stand of trees that sheltered the buildings and village from the east winds, and down to the river.

He had spoken to Vasiliĭ and to Valenis about Kiya, and both had agreed that, not knowing the custom, he was not bound by it. He didn't know whether to take that out clause or not. The apprentice healer was easy to be with, undemanding and … refreshingly deferential. An uneasy memory rose at the thought, a world that had been a secret wish and a girl he hadn't known, who'd been the same way.

He pushed the memory aside. Sam was going through the fire, and probably into the frying pan. Without him. This wasn't going to be like shaking two ends of a single case to see what they came up with. His brother would be gone for a long time, and might not come back. Even if he made it back, things had changed since they'd been here, subtle things. He knew Sam was more than halfway to being in love with Ruane, recognising the restlessness in him even before midsummer, he'd seen the way his little brother followed the young woman around with his eyes. And for himself … what had he found? Perhaps the only home that he could feel a sense of peace in? Belonging? He wasn't sure.

He knew he couldn't leave them to it, though, couldn't ride out with his friend and brother, as if the village and the people meant nothing to him. He wouldn't be able to ignore his thoughts of them here, demon-possessed armies marching steadily toward them, or the certainty that he was leaving them without the knowledge that he had, years of fighting hellspawn, trying to protect the innocent, save people.

So he thought he would stay with Kiya, and see where it ended up. He looked at the river, the clean snow-melt from the high peaks dancing and tumbling over the rocks in the wide shallow river bed, reeds and water grasses thick along the shores. Another thought struck him as he watched the water moodily.

It was the first time he'd been regularly with people other than his brother since Sam had gone to Stanford, maybe even before then. He remembered going to Jim's, with his father and Sam, the four of them sitting around the old card table in Jim's closed-in porch beside the kitchen, playing poker, talking … those were the memories that had kept him fighting to keep his father and his brother from blowing their family to pieces, those were the memories that he'd clung to when he'd gone to the college to find Sam, hoping that somewhere in his little brother's heart, they existed, were strong enough to bring him back.

He closed his eyes, letting his breath out. They hadn't been, of course. But this place … hunting, training, talking, laughing … in this place he could have that again, that security, that camaraderie, that … family. He was surprising himself, a little, with the way that idea felt.

He looked up, hearing the rustle through the long grasses closer to the river. Alis stumbled out from behind the thick grove of poplars that screened the bend, her arm loosely around Lev's neck, both laughing. The fair-haired hunter caught sight of Dean.

"Oops. Come on, sweetheart, we'll find somewhere else." He turned them both with some difficulty, and headed back into the trees.

Dean looked back at the river for a few more minutes, then turned away, heading back up to the village.

* * *

Castiel mounted the dun gelding as if he'd been riding all his life, Sam thought with only the slightest trace of envy. He was too tall for the steppe horses, his feet close to their knees and it didn't seem to matter that he'd been riding every day since they'd stolen the damned animals from the Scythians in the attack on Black Valley, his body protested with the same vigour every time he dismounted. He was keeping his balance better, he consoled himself.

Ruane sat quietly in the saddle, her brown mare half-dozing in the lamplight as Penemue slid his staff through the loops of his saddle and nodded to Castiel. Rascha mounted his horse and turned toward the gates.

Sam glanced back at the small group who stood in the shadows of the keep, watching them go. Vasiliĭ's face was shuttered, a comment on their likelihood of success, or the pain of watching his daughter ride away from him, Sam couldn't tell. Valenis' face was calm but her tension showed in her stance, her arms wrapped around her. Beside her, Dean lifted a hand, his arm around Kiya, who shivered next to him. Sam couldn't see the details of his brother's face, but knew what he was feeling anyway. Maybe they were growing up, growing apart finally. They both had their jobs to do, and he hoped that Dean's would be easier than his.

He nudged his mare with his knees, and she ambled along a little faster, catching up with Ruane's horse as they turned south down the wagon track.

He'd been surprised to learn that Dean hadn't taken the chance to dissolve his implicit promise to Kiya, given the opportunity by both Valenis and Vasiliĭ. Dean hadn't explained it, shrugging and changing the topic to something else. Sam's sense of things unsaid, acutely honed with their years of keeping things from each other, told him that it wasn't as simple as his brother wanting the comfort of a woman in his bed at night, nor that he'd developed feelings for the young healer. He gave up on the speculation, maybe by the time they returned, it would be clearer.

By their best estimates, the logistics of travelling through the mountains with so many men meant the armies would take a while to reach the village, months at least, possibly not before the first winter snows. And along the narrow glacial valleys, it would be easy to stage ambushes, to set traps and blockades. He'd left the recipe for making black powder with both his brother and Torgva, and sent a messenger to Black Valley with another for Kirill. It was relatively easy to manufacture, if they could find nitre rich caves in the area, and an easy supply of sulphur which shouldn't be too hard with Mt Elbrus only a short distance to the north of the village. It would be an effective defence, Dean had already been discussing bomb and mine making with Vasiliĭ before he'd left.

Each delay would help. The villages within a hundred miles of Deep Ice had been warned, were prepared, as much as they could be. Sam let out his breath. His road would have enough problems without him worrying about what was happening behind them. He squeezed his legs harder against his mount, and drew even with Ruane, catching the flash of white in the darkness as she smiled at him.

* * *

They had descended through the lower ranges, following the rivers for the most part, avoiding the trading road south and travelling the higher, less frequented trails used for moving stock through the alpine pastures, the hunting tracks through the forests. The summer days were long, light lingering in the sky until late, giving them more time to ride, to hunt for their food. Castiel had told them when they'd crossed from Russia into Georgia, heading a little more westward, closer to the Black Sea where the temperatures in the lower altitudes were milder and the fields and forests were filled with game and wild food, letting them keep their dried stores almost intact.

Sam stretched out in the pre-dawn light, careful not to wake Ruane, who slept against his side. He looked around the small clearing, at the lumps on the other side of the fire that were Castiel and Rascha and Penemue. He stood and walked to the trees, passing in between the straight, tall trunks to where the ground dropped away to the west and he could see the long swathe of the forest canopy and beyond that the darkness of the sea.

In any other circumstances, he thought he'd be enjoying this. The land was different from home, older, wilder and yet more settled, the weight of thousands of years of occupation not felt yet, but suggested in the markers that lined the trails they rode along, stone or carved into the tree trunks, the small villages and towns they bypassed, surrounded by neatly kept fields, cultivated orchards, human endeavours that had already moved a long way beyond hunter-gatherer.

They were making good time, keeping to the western slopes, covering forty to fifty miles per day, with frequent stops and rest and foraging time for the horses, doing a lot of walking and leading themselves. For now, the roads were good, the terrain easy, food was plentiful. He wondered how much that would change when they crossed into Turkey. The mountain range dividing the two countries was high, the Pontides held snow on their peaks all year round, like the upper Caucasus, and Penemue had already warned them that the way was harder, the mountains younger, sharper, steeper.

Beyond those mountains they would be descending to the fertile plains fed by the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, into Syria. And then through the semi-arid plains and deserts to Jordan.

He sighed and turned back to the camp. They hadn't yet seen any sign of the army of Kokabiel. He hoped they would be able to avoid them entirely, keeping the mountains between them. It was probably a false hope. Thirty thousand men, Penemue had said. More than enough to infiltrate the length and breadth of the Caucasus looking for whatever it was they were looking for.

In the clearing, Castiel was crouched next to the fire, the small iron pot of water and Valenis' tea hanging over the rekindled flames. The angel looked up as Sam walked over to him.

"How can a man be born of an angel and a demon, Cas?"

It was the thing that had bothered him the most about the prophecies.

Castiel shook his head. "It is impossible. But prophecies are often not literal, Sam. Perhaps it has some other meaning that we cannot yet fathom."

"Perhaps." Sam thought that the rest of the prophecy had seemed pretty literal.

They packed up as the sky filled with light, mounting and riding down and across the slopes, following a game trail through the thick oak and maple forest, the sunshine slanting over them from the left, always the left in the mornings as they went south.

* * *

Dean woke suddenly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He heard Kiya's soft murmur of protest as he sat up, and looked down at her, the grey light of dawn outlining the sweep of dark hair, the pale curve of her shoulder as she rolled away from him. He slid out from under the coverings, going to the bowl that sat on the other side of the room, splashing cold water over his face. His fingers brushed along the stubble that covered his jaw and throat. He hadn't been able to duplicate the close shave Alis had given him, and had resorted to using the technique Elbek had shown him, dry scraping with the edge of the knife, which served only to keep the stubble short and constantly rough.

He looked in the polished disk of metal that leaned against the wall behind the bowl and did duty as a mirror. The shallow copper disk didn't distort the reflected image too much, although he still wasn't used to seeing himself with the reddened skin tones that the colour of the metal tinted everything.

It hadn't been a nightmare, he thought. He hadn't had nightmares, not real ones, like those that had dogged his sleep constantly after Hell, since they'd come to this time. It had just been a feeling, a feeling of urgency, of something he had to do, or learn, or understand. He shook his head slightly. The only problem was he had no idea what it meant.

"Dean?"

He turned around and looked at Kiya. "Hey, sorry I didn't mean to wake you."

"Come here."

He walked back to the bed, kneeling beside her as she lifted her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

"Do you have to go so early?" She drew the covers aside, and smiled invitingly up at him.

He looked down at her smooth, creamy skin, sighing inwardly as she lifted his hand and laid it over her breast. She was lovely, and warm, and easy to be with. The muscles of his back were strong and supple again, thanks to her ministrations. And the nights when he came back to their room, not bone-tired and wanting nothing more than sleep, were enjoyable, maybe not earth-moving, but definitely enjoyable.

He didn't know why that felt like it wasn't … quite … enough.

"I really do, Kiya." He drew his hand back gently. "I have to meet Vasiliĭ this morning, go looking for sulphur."

He watched her mouth curve into a moue of disappointment and stood up, looking around for his clothing. "I'll see you tonight."

He dressed quickly, pretending that he didn't hear the rustle and whisper of the furs being pulled back sharply, and walked out of the room, buckling his belt as he closed the door behind him.


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

* * *

Dean followed Vasiliĭ up the steep side of the ridge, looking at the sharp, black rock they climbed over. Lava flow, he thought. A little higher, closer to the old site of the eruption and they'd find what they needed.

Below them, down the slopes of the mountains and beyond, he could see the range twisting and turning, always to the south east, peak after peak. The narrow valleys and gorges and ravines, once cut by ice and water, were clearly visible from their height, and from this vantage point, he could suddenly see how easy it would be to isolate their valley, block the entrance and exit points, at least to horses, if not to men.

"Here. The yellow powder?" Vasiliĭ's voice was sharp and clear in the thin air.

Dean came up past him, looking down at the residues left behind along the edges of the lava flow. Sulphur, barely in need of milling, he thought. He pulled out the tightly woven sacks Guin had given him, and began to pack it in, careful to touch only the dry powder, leaving the deposits that were moist alone. Sulphuric acid was no more fun to play with than hydrochloric acid, and he'd had enough of acids in general.

"So to this we add charcoal and … nitre?" Vasiliĭ's tongue crept around the unfamiliar word tentatively.

"Saltpetre, really. Potassium nitrate." Dean handed the leader a full bag and started filling the next. "The easiest source to find will be guano, bird or bat droppings, preferably from big colonies."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "There is a valley, a few miles west of home, where the rocks and trees are covered in droppings."

"Good. Once we get that, we can make a solution, filter it through ash and let it dry, and hey presto, instant potassium nitrate."

"And these things will make a … bomb." Another unfamiliar word.

"Yeah, a really big bang that can blow up rocks, create avalanches …" Dean shook his head slightly. There were too many unfamiliar concepts to get this across in an explanation. "When we've made a little, I'll show you."

He looked up at Vasiliĭ for a moment, pausing with the bag half-full. "What we really need is information, Vasiliĭ. We need to know the roads that the army will attempt to come through, perhaps fifty miles from the villages, so that we can close them if we have to."

The big man straightened up, looking over the intricate labyrinth of valleys and ridges below them. "Yes, there are only a few roads through the mountains. We can cover them, join up with the other villages."

Dean nodded, filling the final bag and standing up. "If we can make them come on foot, it'll be a different ballgame altogether."

"Ballgame?"

"Uh … situation." Dean shrugged, and looked down the slope they'd come up. "We've got enough sulphur to get started."

* * *

Sam looked up at the craggy peaks confronting them, and shook his head. "You've got be kidding."

Penemue smiled. "We will follow the river to the pass."

Even following the river, as it cut through the rock, deep and fast and filled with white water, or shallowed and beginning to loop lazily where the foothills became more gentle and the plain spread out, the road was challenging. Penemue led them through ancient forests, over steppe-like high plains, climbing the goat-trails that didn't seem have to room for the horses, although the hardy animals clung to the narrow trails with a phlegmatic resignation.

The pass, when they reached it three days later, was little more than another goat-trail, floored with gravel scree and cutting through a narrow defile between the peaks, in deep shadow until midday, when they felt the sunshine on their backs for a little under an hour, then cold again as it disappeared behind the ridges.

"This is the last pass, Sam. On the other side, I will leave you, and you will see the plains."

Castiel looked away. He'd been arguing with the Watcher for a week now about coming with them.

"_As things stand now, Castiel, I am considered neutral by all. If I come with you, I will have chosen a side and then the information from those who consider themselves opposing that side will dry up. I can be of more use to everyone if I do not come."_

The logic was inarguable, Castiel thought bitterly. He was taking three humans into the Watchers' stronghold. And he was powerless, as powerless as those he protected. That was something he would just have to hide from his brothers, and hope that they didn't discover the lie.

At the bottom of the pass, another, narrower road led off to the west, and Penemue drew up his horse at the junction.

"I will watch you, in the water, and let Valenis know how you fare."

Castiel nodded. "You will know if we have failed, Penemue, when the demons come knocking on your door."

The Watcher smiled. "Your optimism is hard to bear, Castiel."

* * *

They camped at the southern end of the pass, by a small lake whose stillness reflected the peaks behind them, the forest around them.

"What were the women like, in your time, your land?" Ruane looked curiously at him, as she skinned and dressed the fat rabbit carcass they would be eating for their dinner.

Sam leaned back against the hard tree trunk, running his hand through his hair, buying time to think about his answer. He'd told her the truth about himself after they'd spent the night together in the woods. He'd found that he couldn't not tell her, there were too many holes in their story, too much of his life he couldn't share if she didn't know the truth, and it was important that she knew, he wanted her to know. For a long moment, her response had been silence, and he'd wondered if it had been too much, belatedly remembering that her upbringing didn't include technology, space travel or television, let alone time travel and angels.

But he'd misjudged the strength of her. And she'd already known that Cas was an angel. Valenis had told her.

"Mostly like the women now, I guess." He thought of the women he'd met, had been involved with, who'd died. They weren't a good representation of the females of 2010 really. Jess … Jess had been strong, and brave, and kind and … he pushed the thoughts of her away again, burying them.

"Do they hunt, like Alis and Lyre?" Ruane rinsed the rabbit and pushed the stripped green wood stick through it, setting it over the low flames and baking coals of their small fire. "Do they sew and weave, heal and tend the fields?"

Sam's smile was involuntary. "Some do, I guess. But many women live in cities, and they do other things …" his brain balked at attempting to explain computers or surgery or anything at all about the legal profession to her. "The world is very different, most of the agriculture is done by machines, uh, very few people hunt for their food, or keep animals just for their own needs." Even factory farming was too far a reach, he thought. "The population of the world has grown a lot since this time, and uh, most people work at a job or a trade, to pay for food and lodging and clothing."

Ruane heard the hitches and hesitations in his answer, frowning slightly. "What kinds of jobs?"

"All kinds … teaching, uh there are factories that make things, and um, people who are artists, who play music or paint or dance for a living." He stopped again, thinking of all the jobs that didn't actually produce anything, but kept the economy rolling, stored information – how could he explain the stock market? Or data mining? Or movies or arms dealers, drug lords, online shopping, take away food joints …

"Are there jobs that I could do?"

He looked at her, confused. "Sure, yeah, I guess so. Why?"

She looked at him, her head tilted a little to one side. "Because you want to go back there, don't you? To your own time? Your own land?"

His brow wrinkled up. "If Cas recovers, gets his angel powers back, yeah."

"Well, I would need to be able to do something useful there," she said, matter of factly, scraping the flesh and fatty remains from the rabbit skin as she looked at him.

"Uh …"

Sam saw the thought occur to her at the same time it clanged into his own mind.

"You would take me with you … wouldn't you, Sam?"

"Of course," he replied straight away but the newness of that idea must have shown in his face, because she turned, getting to her feet and carrying the skin down to the lake's edge, sitting down there with her back to him.

He'd never even thought of it. It was distant, it seemed distant, that Cas would recover sufficiently to get them home again. He thought of their friends, fewer and fewer now, but still Bobby would be worried about them. And Dean would want to return, want his own time, his own life back. Which left him no choice at all.

He got to his feet, walking slowly to the water's edge. He crouched beside Ruane, and looked at her, seeing the tension in her shoulders, her lips pressed tightly together against an emotion she refused to show.

"Ruane, it doesn't matter if we stay or go. We will be together."

She turned her head to look at him, and her eyes were shimmering. "Sam, be careful of what you promise, unless you are sure you can keep it."

"I'm sure."

* * *

Dean looked down into the valley and felt a laugh bubbling up. Elbek stood beside him, his face puzzled at the laughter, looking down at the white valley bottom, then back to Dean.

"You wanted bird droppings, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah. This'll do just fine." He grinned at the hunter and started down the twisting trail, pulling out the sacks from under his belt. "As much as we can carry, Elbek. We'll have to bring the horses next time."

Seventy five percent saltpetre, he thought to himself, scraping the guano from the stones, the tree branches, the shrubs and ground. Sam had told him about making potassium nitrate, using urine and manure, of which they had plenty, but the curing time was eight to ten months. He would see if they could get it going, for later, but this would enable them to produce enough black powder to knock out the roads, he thought.

They gathered nearly eighty pounds between them, tying the bags to long branches, and carrying the branches over their shoulders as they hiked back over the ridges to Deep Ice. The bags weighed heavily by the time they came through the gates, and dropped their load in the cleared and dry shed that he'd commandeered for this project. The bags of sulphur wouldn't take long to grind down. He had to remember to keep the three ingredients far apart from each other, until it was time to load the casings.

Walking down to the river, both men pulled off their boots and weapons and fell into the water. It wasn't a relaxing bath, the water wasn't deep but even now, in mid-July, it was bone-chillingly cold. But it did the job, washing the dried nitrate dust from their skin and hair and clothing. The air was warm at least, Dean thought, walking out of the water and dripping on the smoothed stones that edged much of the river course.

He could hear the villagers in the hall, loud with music and talk and laughter as he passed it, and hurried to his room. He needed to talk to Vasiliĭ about finding alder for the charcoal.

Kiya looked around as he came in the door, smiling at him.

"I thought you'd be in the hall," he said, pulling off his wet clothes and looking around for dry ones.

"I was waiting until you returned." She looked down at the pile of wet clothing on the floor. "Do these need washing?"

Dean glanced at them and shook his head. "No, they'll be fine."

He saw the pile of clothes on the low table by the wall and started dressing.

"Did you find what you needed?" Kiya picked up the wet clothes and spread them over the table in front of the hearth to dry.

"Yep." He pulled on his boots and wrapped his sword belt around his hips, working by feel as he looked at her.

"How is Mika today?"

"He is much stronger. The nightmares are starting to fade away, I think." Kiya walked over to him, running her fingers through his damp hair, flattening the wayward spikes.

"Is Marat still eating in the hall?" He straightened up and looked down at her.

"He was last evening." Kiya looked at him curiously. "Why do you want to see the carpenter?"

"Need some advice about some wood." He grinned at her, opening the door. "Are you ready? I'm starving."

She nodded and followed him out, wondering at the crackling energy he seemed to be radiating. A new idea? Or just some good fortune, she wondered.

* * *

He walked into the hall as the group of young hunters by the fire erupted into laughter, drawing not only his gaze, but those of half of the villagers in the hall. Dean watched as Lev lifted Alis over his head, laughing up into her face. She was wearing a long dress, fitted in the bodice and flowing out from the hips, where a simple belt of copper discs flashed against the pale amethyst of the cloth. Her hair was unbound, falling in a long, deep red curtain over her shoulders, hiding her expression.

He looked away, waiting for Kiya at the doorway, sliding his arm around her shoulders as they crossed together to the end of the hall. Vasiliĭ raised his cup to Dean as he saw him. Dean walked around the table, taking his seat next to the leader's, looking over the platters and bowls of food in front of him, and loading his plate.

"How were the bird droppings?" Vasiliĭ looked at him, one brow raised.

"Very suitable." Dean looked around the tables at the hall. "Is Marat here? We'll need alder for the charcoal."

"Alder? The river banks are thick with alder."

Dean stopped chewing for a moment, then nodded. "Good. We can make the charcoal tomorrow then."

He thought of the casings and looked around for Torgva. "We'll need something for the casings, either a thick clay, or thin sheet metal."

"What is the casing?"

"What we put the powder into, it contains the initial explosion and increases the power." Dean caught the man's expression and shook his head. "You'll see the results soon if we can get enough charcoal tomorrow."

They didn't really need shrapnel, he decided. Not for shutting off a road. He could seed the ground around the village with buried mines, more of the guano in solution would make good fuses, with a fairly predictable burn rate, but if the demons got that close, they were going to have to rely on their defences anyway and he wanted to keep destruction as far from the valley as possible.

The music started again, and several people cleared the tables from the centre of the hall, moving them back to the edges. He looked up as Alis skipped into the cleared space, turning once gracefully as she waited for Lev to catch up. The fair-haired hunter caught her hand and wrapped his arms around her, releasing her a second later as the music dictated the dance to the dancers. He glanced around the hall, seeing that he wasn't the only one who was watching the red-haired woman.

"Alis looks happier with Lev," Kiya said quietly beside him. He turned to her, feeling his brows rise.

"Happier than what?"

"Than she did with Elbek." Kiya looked at him, hearing the sharpness in his voice.

In the periphery of his vision he saw the dancers stop, and felt a pair of pale green eyes on him. He leaned forward and kissed Kiya lightly, not sure what he was doing, but seeing the young healer's surprise and a trace of relief in the dark brown eyes.

"I didn't think Elbek was that stupid," he remarked, turning his head back to the dancers, in time to see Alis turn away, tipping back her head as Lev brushed his lips against her neck.

"Torgva is there, Dean, if you want to see him now about these … casings?" Vasiliĭ pointed past the dancers to the table by the fire. Valenis and Torgva had finished their meal and were talking together.

Dean nodded, dragging his thoughts back to the explosives. He wanted to get this going.

He turned back to Kiya. "I'm going to speak to Torgva."

She looked down at her plate for a moment, then nodded. He hesitated, looking down at her face, then gestured to the dancers.

"Elbek is probably dying for a dance, you should give him the chance."

She smiled at him. "Yes, perhaps I will."

He got up and followed Vasiliĭ over to the blacksmith's table, and Kiya finished her wine, slipping from the table and making her way to where Elbek sat with his back to the centre of the hall.

"I wondered when you would have a new demand for me." Torgva gave Dean a wry smile as they sat down.

"Hate to see you without any work to do, since Sam isn't around to keep prodding you." Dean retorted lightly. "I need thin sheet metal, any kind will do but something that won't rust in the rain would be nice."

"How thin do the sheets need to be?" The smith leaned forward across the table, his eyes narrowed as he listened to Dean's explanation of what was required for the casings.

* * *

Valenis sat quietly, watching and listening to them. She had news for Dean of Castiel and his brother, and for Vasiliĭ of Ruane, but she would let them get their business out of the way first. She watched her daughter discreetly as well, seeing her wide smiles and abundant energy disguising what the girl was feeling, so well that she doubted that anyone else saw.

The dress was, at least, a success, she thought. Guin had made it as a names day gift, the colour was an experimental dye using a tin mordant this time, the fabric more tightly woven on the new loom than she'd tried before. Alis looked beautiful in it, Valenis had to admit. It wasn't often her daughter could be persuaded to put on a dress instead of the warrior's attire she preferred. Perhaps she would more often now.

She turned back to the men's conversation as she heard the cold note in Vasiliĭ's voice.

"No. No, Dean. No one goes out alone anymore. Everyone goes with at least one warrior who can watch, while the job is done."

She saw the characteristic scowl cross the other man's face. "I don't need help and I don't want to take up someone's time when there is too much to do here, Vasiliĭ."

Valenis looked around as Alis sat down beside her, Lev sliding onto the bench close by, both flushed and breathless from the dancing. She raised a brow questioningly at her daughter, seeing Alis' swift glance past her and back. Alis looked blandly back at her mother and the healer sighed softly, turning away, listening to the conversation between the leader and the outlander.

"You will go with someone or not at all, Dean." The leader's voice deepened and Dean made a frustrated gesture.

"Fine. Alright." He glanced at Valenis, and his eyes flickered briefly past her, before returning to the leader.

"When do you begin the harvest?"

"In two weeks, any later and there will be storms, the seeds are almost ready now." Vasiliĭ leaned back, relieved that Dean had chosen to respect his authority. He was aware that the man was a few years younger than himself, but he'd come to rely on his knowledge and his strength in the last few months, and he'd seen the streak of deep responsibility toward those under his protection that matched his own.

"I'll make sure I'm back before then."

"Good. We will need everyone for that." Vasiliĭ looked from Dean to Valenis. "We will have a good winter store this year."

She nodded, not saying what everyone at the table was thinking. If they were not attacked, if they did not have to abandon their crops and pastures. There was no point to saying it out loud.

Dean turned as Kiya's hand rested on his shoulder. He stood up, looking at Vasiliĭ.

"I'll be ready day after tomorrow. If we can take horses, it should only take three or four days to check both ways."

Vasiliĭ stood as well. "Yes, we will not need the horses until after the harvest. Once it is in, we can take the … bombs … and set them in place."

"Dean, I have news of Castiel and Sam," Valenis looked up at him, "Penemue said that they have crossed the mountains safely and have reached the high desert." She glanced at Vasiliĭ, seeing him close his eyes in relief.

"That's good, they're moving pretty fast. Did they see the army or advance scouts?"

"No, the western side of the mountains was completely undisturbed, no sign that any had made it that far."

Dean frowned, looking away absently as he wondered why; surely if the demons were looking to subdue the population they wouldn't leave any part of the mountains untouched?

Valenis watched his face curiously, seeing his eyes regain their focus then narrow as her daughter and Lev left the table, his expression hardening suddenly. She looked behind her, and saw the couple embracing in the shadows of the doorway. He'd already turned away as she looked back to him, taking Kiya's hand and walking out of the hall as the music began again.

* * *

The fire burned low, the flames jumping and flickering, the air in the room warm and dry, but a fitful breeze from the south trickling through the thin slit windows from time to time. Kiya arched her back, her breath fast and shallow, her skin gilded and shadowed by the firelight. Dean lifted his head, feeling the droplets of sweat falling from his hair as he crossed the line where his control left him, and the long, slow building of sensation became a wild escalation of pleasure through nerve and muscle, shuddering through him, and leaving him empty but not quiet.

* * *

Sam looked around the crowded square, filled with people of every description, of every race, colour and dress, and felt Ruane's hand slide into his. He tightened his fingers around hers, glancing down reassuringly at her. The cacophony of the different languages filled the air, not quite blending together, a disharmonious yet intensely alive sound that was unlike anything he'd heard before, even in the most crowded cities of his time.

To every side, the mud-brick and stone buildings rose, brightly coloured cloth tented out on poles to provide shade to the fronts of the buildings and for the simple stands set up along the walls and around the well. The traders sold their produce loudly, competing fiercely with each other for the attention of the crowds that flowed past, arguing over quality and price with an enthusiastic melodrama that was as much a part of the buying and selling as the produce itself.

It was already hot, even here in the northern foothills, the sunlight mercilessly bright and hard, reflecting from the pale soils, the calcareous stone. Sam could feel sweat trickling down his neck and back, and wondered what the temperature would be like in a month's time.

Rascha moved ahead of them, Castiel following closely, the dark haired hunter stopping here and there at the stalls, haggling ferociously with the vendors for the fresh and dried food they needed. Sam stopped as the angel turned in front of him, holding out a handful of what appeared to be large, squashed insects. Cockroaches, Sam thought, wrinkling his nose as he peered down at them.

"Eat. They're dates, very nutritious." Castiel pushed the handful closer to Sam.

"They look like cockroaches." Sam glanced at Ruane who was viewing the fruit with equal suspicion.

"They're not. They're fruit. They're good." Castiel took one from the handful and put it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing.

Sam reached out tentatively and picked a date from the pile, smelling it first. The dates had been picked fresh, but much of their moisture had evaporated, leaving the fleshy fruit slightly deflated looking, but more dense. He took a bite and looked up at Castiel, nodding slightly. They were good, rich and sweet. He picked another from the pile, and smiled at Ruane as she took one for herself.

"They keep well." The angel turned away and followed the hunter, talking over his shoulder. "This will be the last town we stop at. We will follow the mountains on their eastern slopes, away from the populations. We need supplies and animals."

By evening, Rascha had acquired what they needed. Sam looked at the camels, cushed down in the warm sand at the edge of the town, their large eyes expressing both superiority and boredom in equal parts as they chewed their cud slowly. Bags of food, fresh and dried, lay in a heap not far from them, along with rolled cloth, of a heavy yarn, tightly woven and greased with fat, that would make simple shelters for them.

Their horses had been traded for the camels reluctantly by Castiel. There wasn't likely to be enough forage for them on the long trip and they couldn't spare the room it would take to carry sufficient. The diet of the camels was more tolerant, and for the next three hundred miles the water supplies could be few, and far between.

Sam picked up one of the large hide bags that lay beside the food. The _guerbe_ was made of goatskin, and filled with water. Slow evaporation through the hide kept the water cool, even without shelter. The ten bags would give them almost two weeks' supply.

On the horses, in good country, they'd made forty miles a day. Here, they would be walking, the camels carrying their packs, and the terrain far from good. He thought they might be able to cover twenty miles a day, if they were lucky and didn't run into a sandstorm or flash flooding from a localised thunderstorm, or anything else the desert was likely to throw at them. It would be at least two weeks of steady travelling, more likely a few days more. They would be travelling primarily at night, to avoid the heat of the sun and resting during the midday hours, Rascha had explained. In the desert, conservation of energy and moisture was the paramount law.

* * *

"It's time." Rascha came out of the darkness into the narrow circle of firelight of their camp. Sam noticed that his sword was gone from his belt, leaving the knife sheathed at his left hip and his bow, unstrung and held by loops to the strap that lay over his shoulder.

They packed the loads onto the camels in silence, and took the lead ropes as the animals jack-knifed slowly to their feet. The night wind was cold, but light, and their coats were warm enough. Overhead, the black sky blazed with a million stars, undimmed by any other light source, the moon in her dark phase. Sam saw Rascha look up, staring at the stars for a long moment, then nod to himself, heading south and slightly west into the open country.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

* * *

Dean looked up as a shadow crossed the doorway. Torgva grinned as he came into the shed, holding out two halves of what seemed to be a large metal ball.

Replacing the stone pestle on the table carefully, Dean stood up and walked around the table to look at them.

"Perfect."

The sphere had a thin lip around both halves, and a half thread, cut just under the lip, where they could be joined together with a tight, airless seam. At the top of one half, a small hole had been punched out, to fill the container with the powder, and provide an outlet for the fuse.

"So, when do we see these things of yours do what they are supposed to do?"

"Uh, when the charcoal's finished." Dean looked down at the sphere. "This is too big for a demonstration. I'll use a pot or something for that."

He watched Torgva's eyes go to the table, where the sulphur and potassium nitrate were finished in their bowls. The finely ground powders, yellow and white respectively, were a respectable distance from each other to avoid any possible contamination and subsequent detonation.

"From this, these bits of earth … fire?" Torgva looked back at him, puzzled.

"Yeah, it's a bit complicated without chemistry 101, but the powders have a reaction to each other, causing them to explode … like a log with too much moisture in it might explode on a fire." It was a piss-poor analogy, he thought, but he couldn't get any closer.

"Ah." The smith nodded, then shook his head. "The moisture inside the log becomes steam, that is what causes it to expand and break the log, Dean … these things do this also?"

Dean laughed softly, and shook his head. "No, not really. I can't explain it as well as Sam can, Torgva."

Elbek and Vasiliĭ appeared in the doorway. "The charcoal is ready, Dean."

"Yeah, well, let it cool down. We'll put them together in the afternoon." He set the pieces of the casing on the table, and looked over his shoulder at the blacksmith.

"How many of these can you make? And how long will it take?"

"It takes maybe an hour or two to make each one. I could do more, with help."

Dean nodded. "That'll be fine. I'll be able to give you the exact number I need when I've checked the roads."

Elbek looked down into a wide clay tub that sat near the door. The odour rising from it was sharp and acrid, and he wrinkled his nose. The liquid it contained was cloudy, but he could see the coiled length of thick yarn soaking in it.

"And this?" He looked up at Dean.

"Fuse." Dean walked over to him. "To set off the bombs."

"It smells extremely bad."

"It's the guano." He grinned at the hunter. "It'll soak into the yarn, and a … uh, flame will burn down it and ignite the black powder."

He looked from Elbek to Vasiliĭ to Torgva, seeing they were interested, but realising that none of them was really getting the concept of explosives. "You'll see, this afternoon."

They walked out of the shed, and Dean closed the door, dropping the simple wooden toggle latch. No one here would steal anything, hence the lack of locks, but an open door was an invitation, and a closed one a tacit command to not enter.

* * *

Sam stretched out under the shade of the tent, trying to lie still, to keep his body's exertions to a minimum. It shouldn't have been hard, he thought irritably, he was tired enough from the night's walking. But the heat, even in the shade, was both enervating and uncomfortable and the morning had been completely still, so that it clung to him like a suffocating shroud.

He could hear Ruane's soft, even breathing beside him, and a sideways glance to the other shelter showed him the still shapes of Rascha and Castiel, both obviously asleep as well.

He twisted slightly, lifting his shirt from his damp skin, wishing for even the slightest breeze to provide some relief. They had made good time through the night, stopping two hours after dawn, some thirty miles from Halab. It had been tiring, that walk, the ground changing from rock and gravel to an occasional drift of sand, and back to gravel, the air cold and dry and the wind picking up later in the night as the desert gave up its stored heat. By morning, they'd been surrounded by empty land, no sign of people, or animals, no road, or trail to follow, just Rascha's mental course, drawn from the position of the stars and a bearing laid down to the mountain that lay ahead of them.

The hunter had explained what he was doing when Sam had asked, using the pole star to establish north, and then choosing a star in relation to it to lay a bearing to a fixed landmark along their path. As they'd reach the first oddly shaped mesa that Rascha had chosen, he'd stopped and found another star to lay another bearing to a new landmark, and so they had progressed across the trackless ground, moving steadily slightly west of south.

A warm breeze played across him, and he opened his eyes, looking at the small dustdevil that rose and fell a few feet from the tent. The ground was heating up again, and the temperature differential between the earth and the air brought the breeze, stirring the air and moving it. Sam lay back, closing his eyes again as his sweat dried on his skin, the evaporation cooling him and letting him rest.

They ate when the sun touched the rim of the mountains to the west. The small fire had been built of thorn tree and acacia, and burned smokeless against the mauve sky, cooking the food in the small iron pot, heating the water for tea.

Tea was the desert dweller's drink, Sam had discovered. Water passed through the system too quickly for efficient hydration, tea lasted much longer, deeply hydrating the body. Rascha had bought the fine leaves from the market, and each rest stop they drank the heavily sweetened liquid, drinking plain water only at dawn and dusk. The tea was boiled three times over the fire, then allowed to cool and poured out. It was refreshing, surprisingly so, Sam thought, as it was hot. He hadn't felt the need for more liquid through the day or the night as they walked.

He watched the day's colour bleed out from the sky, dusk rolling over the flat landscape to the east like a slow-moving fog.

"Cas, did anyone know, in Heaven, why Dean and I were vessels for Michael and Lucifer?" he asked softly, sitting next to the angel. The question had bothered him for a long time, the parallel between the archangels and his brother and himself always seeming far too hokey to explain it properly.

Castiel turned his head to him. "There was a lot of speculation."

"What kind of speculation?"

"You read the Book of Enoch, Sam, it must have occurred to you that the lines that the fallen began in this world had led somewhere."

Sam felt his eyes widen slightly as the implications resonated through him. "So, somewhere way back when, we're actually descended from angels?"

The angel inclined his head. "From two lines. The Campbells originated with the children of Azazel."

He heard Sam's indrawn breath and looked at him. "Azazel lived on earth for a long time, Sam. He'd fought with Lucifer against Heaven, but he recanted when push came to shove, choosing to fall and join the Watchers, rather than be thrown into the Pit with his lord and brothers. He couldn't help his nature though and he meddled with humans for hundreds of years while he lived with them. When his mortal form finally died, Lucifer insisted that he be sent to Hell, for his betrayal and for the crimes against humanity he'd perpetrated whilst on earth. God, unfortunately, agreed."

"And Lucifer tortured him?" Sam drew in a breath. "And turned him into a demon."

"Along with the others, yes."

"You said that the Campbell line came from Azazel?" Sam struggled to put these new pieces into place.

"Yes. But the Winchester line originated with another Watcher." Castiel sighed. It had taken him a long time to realise why Raphael had pushed so vehemently for the union of John Winchester and Mary Campbell, and of course it had been far too late when he'd finally realised the scope of the archangel's deeply laid plans. "Araquiel, whom you will meet when we reach Jordan."

"So Dean and I, we both have bloodlines from two different angels?"

Castiel glanced at him. "Yes."

"And that's why we were the vessels?"

"Azazel was compatible with Lucifer. And Araquiel with Michael. Yes."

"But if the bloodlines are mixed, then why wasn't Dean equally suitable for Lucifer? Why did Lucifer insist it had to be me? And Michael that it had to be Dean?"

"The … material … passed along from an angel to a human … isn't precisely genetic, Sam. It doesn't mix and match, in the same way that genes and chromosomes do in purely human biology."

"I don't understand."

"I can't explain it to you more precisely, I'm afraid. You can mix oil and water together, but they will separate if you stop agitating them. The angel … well, genes, for lack of a better word, are like that, they don't become diluted by the human genes, they lie alongside them, as the oil to the water."

"Alright."

"And in the case of the two bloodlines, your genetic makeup received more from the Campbell line, from Azazel. Dean's received more from Araquiel."

"Was that why Azazel chose me? To poison with his blood? To turn me into … something else?" Sam's voice was filled with bitterness and Castiel closed his eyes.

"We think so."

"So, there was never any chance for escaping this, was there? Not even coming back to this time, because we're still fighting the possibility of Lucifer taking over!"

Castiel opened his mouth and closed it abruptly again. That was true. They'd left the devil in the twenty-first century, but here, in this time, they were facing a worse possibility, the devil walking around here, and now, in a time when the population was a fraction of what it was in the future, and complete genocide was a much easier proposition.

His thoughts were flying. Penemue had said that the lines of Destiny had been changed by propitiation to the Fates, a living sacrifice. And then his attempt to travel with the Winchesters had been tampered with, the enormous force of that yank backwards, pulling them back to this time … that hadn't been angels, or God …

* * *

Dean looked at the rock face critically. The explosive was tucked into a crack, about a third of the way up, the black powder encased in a small clay pot, the fuse trailing down and leading away from it. The force should be multi-directional, he thought, although it would have less resistance outward since he hadn't put the pot into the face very deeply. He glanced at the gathered crowd, and waved at the hunters to push them back further. He wasn't completely sure of the power of the device, not yet, and they didn't need anyone injured.

Looking around once more he nodded to himself and walked back to where Vasiliĭ and Torgva stood, the smith holding the end of the white fuse patiently.

"Alright. Let's rock." He took a burning twig from the small fire burning beside them and lit the fuse, enjoying the look of surprise on the surrounding faces as the fuse hissed and crackled, the flame racing along its length toward the rockface.

The explosion was impressive. Every hand flew to ears as the compression was released and the blast wave of expanding air even bowed the trees by the river. Rock and soil blew outward from the cliff, but the effects went deeper, the explosion opening a weakness along the grain of the deeper rock and after a few moments, two or three car-sized boulders broke free along the fault lines and tumbled down to the meadow.

"That is a bomb." Dean turned to Vasiliĭ with a wide grin.

The leader lowered his hands cautiously and looked around at the debris spread from the blast. He nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, now I see."

In the narrow confines of the trails that led to the villages, even a blast this small could bring down sufficient rock to block the passage completely. The demonstration pot had been about the size of his fist, he thought, looking down at his hand. The casings that Torgva had made for Dean were five times as big, more like head-sized. He could imagine now the explosion they would cause.

"Yes. They will not be able to bring their horses with them if we close the roads with these. They can climb over themselves, but it will be a long march on foot, and carrying their own supplies and they will have no weapons greater than they can carry themselves."

Dean nodded, exhaling in relief as he watched Vasiliĭ running through every implication. It would change everything, put the odds back in their favour.

"If we can close the road between the villages and the passes … even if we only delay them until the snow starts, they won't be able to come at us in winter, not when the passes close. But I need to see those roads, to know how much we'll need." He looked over the damage the small device had caused again. Depending on the narrowness of the gorges, the roads, the passes, he might not need much at all.

Vasiliĭ strode to him, his smile wide, slapping him on the shoulder, a gesture of excitement that just about knocked him over. "Yes. Whatever you need."

* * *

Rascha, Sam and Ruane watched Castiel searching through his belongings furiously.

"Cas, what?"

"The push, the push that sent us back here, it was not the angels, Sam, nor God. It was Fate, one of them or all three, I don't know, I don't really know how powerful they are, except that they _are_ powerful, far more so than angels." He pulled out the clothing from his bag, throwing it onto the ground, feeling around the bottom. His fingers closed around the small cloth bag and he sat back, drawing it out.

"We need a separate fire, further away from the camp. I do not want them to see where we are."

Rascha nodded and got to his feet, taking a bundle of the wood piled near their fire and walking into the night, out beyond the firelight.

"The Fates drew us back here?" Sam stared at Castiel.

"I believe so."

"Why?"

"That's what I need to ask them." He stood, looking down at them. "The last thing either of you want to do is be remembered by the Fates, Sam, Ruane. Stay here."

Sam glanced at Ruane and started to rise. Her hand flashed out, gripping his wrist with a surprising strength.

"Don't, Sam. Casteel is right, you do not want to be noticed or remembered by those who control your destiny. Let him go and ask them." She looked up at him.

He looked after the angel. He didn't want to become more noticed than he already was by the powers that ruled the universe, but he didn't want to leave Castiel to face them on his own either. Rascha came out of the darkness a moment later and dropped to the ground beside them, crossing his legs as he looked across the fire to them.

Sam sank down again, biting the inside of his cheek as he watched the darkness in the direction the angel had gone.

* * *

"How far is it to the southern pass?" Dean looked at Vasiliĭ, swallowing the last mouthful of the rich stew, and taking a hunk of bread to clean the bowl.

"About twelve days' walk from here, White Spring is the last village to the south on this side of the pass." He glanced at Elbek for confirmation, the young hunter had travelled the mountains extensively before settling here with them. Elbek nodded.

By horse, that might take three or four days, Dean thought. "And to the northern pass?"

"To where the road is no longer suitable for wagon travel, it's ten days' walk." Elbek frowned as he thought of that road. There were no other trails that led to it, it was the only way through for anyone on horse, or by cart. "You'll probably have to go hard to get both sides done and back before the harvest, Dean."

He nodded. He could do it, he only needed to look at them, not actually do anything.

"Alis will go with you." Vasiliĭ drained his cup and set it down, looking down the table at the hunter who had raised her head at the mention of her name. Valenis looked up at the same time, her brow furrowing as she glanced between Dean and her daughter, sitting at opposite ends of the table.

"Uh, perhaps someone else, Vasiliĭ," she said softly. "Yuri, or Lyre?"

"No." Dean looked at her. "It's fine with me." He looked down the table, his face expressionless. Alis shrugged, her gaze on Vasiliĭ.

"With me also. When do you want to leave in the morning?" She picked up the bowl, and stood.

"Just before dawn."

She nodded and walked out of the hall. Valenis watched her go, her lips pressed together as she wondered what that had been about. She turned back to Vasiliĭ and lifted a shoulder, shaking her head slightly. She would speak to Alis before she left.

* * *

Castiel settled himself in front of the small fire Rascha had built, holding the small bag of herbs and other ingredients. He took a deep breath, unsure now if he really wanted to know, if he really wanted to get their attention.

_The alternative? None_, he thought with an edge of bitterness. He had to know the truth, had to know what had happened, who was pushing them around like pawns on a chessboard and why.

He threw the bag into the fire, his eyes narrowing to slits as the flames turned from yellow to cerulean and then deepened to indigo as the bag caught fire.

The flames seemed to slow down, lifting higher and twisting languidly into the air, shapes forming deep within them. He watched as the faces of the Moirai appeared, not precisely human, the features weren't quite correct. The first was Clotho, her face wizened and ancient, spider silk hair drifting around it, her eyes gleaming dark and cold, then Lakhesis appeared beside her sister, her features plump and bold, her hair thick and full, swirling upward with the heat of the flames, her lips curving into a cool smile. Finally Atropos, with the smooth skin and delicate face of a maiden, hair long and tangled, streaming outward. The faces in the indigo flames of the fire turned toward him and he braced himself against their collective gaze, all too aware of the power these three held, even over him.

"Who callsss in the night?"

The whisper did not come precisely as a voice, it trembled in his mind somewhere between the frequencies of the seraphim, and the other creatures that existed on the planes outside of the one he was on. Clothos was ancient, and he, for one, did not equate old with infirmity. She was the most powerful and deadly of the three.

"Seraphim or mortal? It is hard to see you. Speak if you would know something." The voice of Lakhesis, although stronger and deeper, was still not exactly a voice, but it was closer to the mortal plane than her elder sister's.

"Castiel?" Atropos' voice was almost human. She was young, and vibrant and much closer to this plane than either of her sisters. And she knew him, he thought, that alone confirmed it.

"Why have you drawn us to this place, this time?" He made the words come out strongly.

"Ah …"

"… forced we were, to change–"

"… one of the lines that led to the destiny in your time, in this time." Atropos finished the answer, and he suddenly remembered how annoying it was to speak to the Moirai.

"The propitiation wassss–"

"… correct, and we had no choice but–"

"… to accept it, and do as we were asked. We knew what Cesare wanted. The Morning Star rising before his time, into a world he could destroy."

"We could sssssee your–"

"… friends, the young men who were to fight–"

"… the Devil in the future, so we drew you here. You and Dean and Sam are forever linked to Lucifer's death, Castiel, you had to be involved."

"It wassss only–"

"… by the most amazing luck that we could–"

"… find you when you were already on the timeline. I do not know that we would have had the strength to draw you back if you had not already been in transit. You must prevent the devil from rising here, Castiel–"

"… or all will be–"

"… lost forever, this world, all the worlds for he has sworn vengeance–"

"… upon his Father and Heaven, and if Cesare can raise him as prophesised then he will have the power to do so, the power of Heaven and Hell bonded together in one vessel."

"Stop!" Castiel looked at the Moirai, his heart pounding against his ribs as he took in what they were telling him.

"You're saying that if the mage finds the vessel, Lucifer has the power of Heaven and Hell at his disposal? All of the souls?"

"Yesssss …"

"… he can control the power because of the duality of the vessel,"

"He will bring fire and destruction to this world, Castiel, and to every world that God created."

"What does the mage want?" The angel looked at Clothos.

"Power …"

"… he seeks to change the timelines completely, to recreate history,"

"… he thinks that Lucifer will give him the power to rule the world, the Deceiver has lied to him, caressed and manipulated him, told him what he wants to hear."

_What a surprise_, Castiel thought, _a witch believing the lies of the Devil_.

"Can we stop it? They are human, and I may as well be." He looked from one face to the other, seeing the outlines begin to fade as the summoning spell died.

"Yessss …"

"… maybe, we cannot see this line, not yet, it hasn't been woven to its end,"

"… you must, Castiel, you are bound to the Fate of Lucifer, only you three can stop it, and it must be now because the future as already been–"

The faces disappeared and the flames soared for a moment, before returning to their normal yellow colouring, flickering over the dry acacia wood that was almost ash.

Already been … what? Castiel closed his eyes in frustration. He didn't think Sam was going to be happy to hear this, and his brother even less so.


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

* * *

Dean saw the faint light gleaming in the barn as he walked down through the square, one door standing open, the now-familiar gold light of an oil lamp spilling out onto the ground. He glanced up at the sky. It was still full dark, not even the earliest traces of grey showing yet.

Alis sat on the heavy timber rails that made up the pens, gently honing the edge of her blood metal knife as she waited. The horses had been fed and watered an hour before, and were saddled, the thick hide bedrolls and extra armoury tied securely on. She looked up as Dean walked through the door, sliding off the fence and tucking her knife into its sheath, the stone into the pocket of her jacket. She nodded to him, and walked to the head of her mare, pulling the bridle over the ears and settling it along the cheeks.

He walked to his own mount's head and drew on the bridle, deciding against making a comment. If she wanted to do all the work, that was okay with him. He turned back to the saddle, and secured the round bag he'd brought with him. Nested in tightly-packed straw inside it, four more of the demonstration bombs were ready, in case any of the village leaders needed to see them work. He didn't think they would be necessary, but better to have them along than not. The saddle bag wasn't heavy and the fuses were packed separately.

He untied the reins from the rail and led the dark brown gelding to the doors, pulling the soft cloak more closely around himself against the chill mountain air, and mounting as the light in the barn was extinguished.

The gate keepers unbarred and drew back the gates as they sat on the horses, waiting.

"Which way first?"

He looked over at her, barely able to see her features in the darkness. "South."

She nodded and closed her legs against the mare's sides, riding through the gates and turning right. He followed, resettling the sword against his thigh and nodding to Petyr, who had gate duty this morning as he passed through. Bare essentials it was, he thought.

* * *

Sam walked next to Castiel, the camels following along amicably for once. He looked at the angel's profile, outlined by the starlight.

"They actually said that we, you and me and Dean, were tied to the fate of Lucifer?"

"That's what they said." Castiel kept his gaze on the ground, the dim light just enough to make out the shadows of rock and hole and lip, enough anyway to stop from tripping them over or falling into them.

They had listened to Castiel's recounting of his meeting with the Fates, and then packed up their gear and loaded the camels, setting out after dark. The wind blew steadily from the east, ice cold after the heat of the day, and coating them gradually with the fine dust of the desert.

Ahead, Rascha walked point, following his bearing, leading them south. Miles to the east, the wind carried the high pitched laugh of hyena, and a moment later the deep-throated roar of a lion. Sam glanced at the camels following, who seemed stoically unmoved by the sound of the predator. He remembered reading that the big cats had been populous in these lands at one time – this time, obviously, he thought.

The ground rose slightly ahead of them, and their feet sank into the sand drift. He felt the muscles of his thighs and back protest the change. The gravel plains were hard on the feet, but better for the body, he thought absently, as he felt the sand shifting under his feet.

"All that talk, from Michael and the others, about the inevitability of Destiny, how things can't be changed … did you know that was all bullshit, Cas?" he asked.

"No, I thought it was fixed, that it had been fixed from the beginning," Castiel replied. "I was never that highly ranked, Sam. I knew the Fates could alter destinies, sometimes, in small ways, but I thought the major lines were as immutable as … as … God."

Sam heard the bewilderment in the angel's voice and shook his head. "After everything we've been through, Cas, everything you've seen … your faith is hard to shake, man."

"I thought it was gone." He looked at Sam, lifting a shoulder. "It's hard to know what you still believe in until it's tested again, I suppose."

Sam looked away. Faith was belief, he thought, and knowing was not the same thing as believing. It didn't matter, not really. If it had always been about killing Lucifer, ending it once and for all, then that was what they'd have to do.

* * *

The road wound through the river valley, dropping away on one side, to the flats through which the river raced, and rising, often steeply, on the other, the slope covered in sweet mountain grass and starred with wildflowers. Dean looked around, a memory floating through his mind of a postcard he'd seen once, in some motel or other, of a scene remarkably like this. It had been from Switzerland, he thought.

The sun was warm, and as they approached Black Valley, the fields became more orderly, the spring wheat and barley tall and bending in the light breeze, rippling like golden seas between the road and the river. It seemed impossible that anything could destroy this, could harm it. They rode around the bend and saw the village ahead, the ground that had been churned to mud and filled with bodies a few months ago, now lush with grass, people moving in and out of the village, between the orchards and storehouses and fields.

Alis lifted an arm as the guards on the palisade watched them. Dean noticed that four archers had arrows drawn on them, and that word had been sent to the leader that strangers were riding down the valley.

Need some kind of signal, he thought, something that helps to identify friends or enemies at a distance. Telescope would be good. He didn't know if they'd been invented yet or not, but he'd seen some glass work in the village, and even clear quartz could be ground and polished to make a lens, he thought. Something else he'd forgotten to check with Sam or Cas.

The archers did not lower their bows until they reached the gate and Alis called out to the guard. He wondered how many travellers had been through this season, and what they'd thought of the new protocols.

He pulled up his horse next to Alis, as she leaned from her saddle to lick the salt spilled onto her hand and take the iron rod that was the only means they'd come up with for testing so far. Beyond the gates, every village had a devil's trap, cut deep into the soil and filled with molten lead. Most were grown over now, enough so that they weren't immediately obvious. Along with the iron and salt through the walls, it kept the inside of the village protected.

The guard nodded them through and they dismounted in the square, as Mikhail hurried down from the keep to greet them.

"It is good to see you, Dean. Everything is working, is Sam with you? Kirill has been talking of your brother incessantly since he left." He looked at Alis, gesturing to her. "How is your mother, Alis? Is she taking more apprentices this year? We could use another healer."

Alis smiled at him. "She is well. Yes, she said she would take on two new apprentices this year." She glanced at Dean and he handed her his reins, stepping toward the village leader.

"Uh, Sam's not with us, Mikhail. He had another job he had to finish." Dean turned and walked up the roughly paved track to the keep with Mikhail. Alis watched him go, impressed by the smooth way he'd managed that. She led the horses down to the village's big barn, and saw them settled for the night in pens, then walked slowly up to the keep, stopping along the way to talk to people she hadn't seen since the attack. Despite the relatively short distances, the villages didn't get much time to socialise with each other. The younger people were sent from one to another, to learn a trade or meet prospective spouses, but that was all, except for very special events, when two or three villages might join together. On foot, it was a long way to go. And there was always work to be done. They were like squirrels, she thought, spending all their time gathering and preparing food so that they could survive the winter.

Dean glanced over his shoulder halfway to the keep, and saw her take the horses down to the barn, turning his attention back to Mikhail as the man told him about the preparations they'd made, and those they were planning on making. Kirill had delivered blood metal weaponry, even arrow heads now, to the villages along the mountain road. No one had used them in an attack yet. The road had been very quiet for this time of year, though, not a single traveller from the south coming through.

No, Dean thought bleakly, remembering Mika's report. The population well south of them would have a different story to tell.

They would spend the night here, he decided. Leave before dawn again tomorrow, and then camp each night when the light was too poor to keep riding.

* * *

The hall was filled with people, and the noise in the large, high space was considerable. Dean leaned close to Mikhail, explaining the plan for the high road. Each village would provide one or two men to watch the road, to light the signal fires, and to set off the bombs that would block the passes. The men could be rotated for those duties, he thought.

The demon armies had another four months, maximum, before the weather closed the passes for the winter. Sam had told him that armies, of any reasonable size, marched between ten and twenty miles a day, if they were carrying supplies. Were the demons carrying supplies? Did they care about the meatsuits enough to feed them, rest them? He shook his head, even if the men were driven, the horses could not be. They would have to rest them, let them forage.

He leaned his chin on his hand, his gaze moving around the hall, thinking of how the army would move through the mountains, across the peaks and valleys, along the narrow roads. The Romans had built their roads as they'd gone, he remembered. The Greeks hadn't bothered, but theirs had been an army of infantry. Horses could move faster, go further in a day's travel, and the Scythians were from the harshest lands, they'd find it easy to feed themselves in these lands.

What were the Watchers doing here? He thought of the prophecy. If they were looking for someone, why send an army? Why not send raiding parties, or scouts, even? The party who'd attacked Black Valley had not been looking for anyone, he remembered. They had surrounded the village with the pure intent of killing everyone inside. Like the Egyptians, the memory rose unbidden from an old Charlton Heston movie. Slaughter them all.

He straightened up slightly. A seek and find mission, and a seek and destroy mission? One army looking for the vessel, the other making sure that no one would be left to fight the devil when he rose? Did that mean that the prophecies had included something about a countering force? Not that he'd that much experience with prophecies, he thought, but the ones he had been … involved … with had had that counterbalance built in.

The glimpse of dark red hair, in the midst of the crowd, dragged his thoughts back from the speculation. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face tiredly. There was nothing he could do with this information, except what he was already doing. He couldn't contact Cas or Sam, couldn't warn them or ask them anything. He could only keep going, try to protect the villages, the people, and hope like hell they weren't all missing something vital.

Mikhail glanced at him, and shook his head. "You should rest, if you are leaving early tomorrow."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

"There is a room, for you and your kinswoman. I will have the men ready by the time you come back, Dean." Mikhail murmured something to the woman sitting next to him, and she stood, looking at Dean expectantly.

He glanced back at the crowd in the hall, looking for Alis. He couldn't see her, and shrugged. She would find their quarters eventually, he guessed. He followed the older woman out of the hall and down to a small square room, furnished with two beds and a table, a wide clay bowl filled with water sitting on it.

Stripping down, he sank onto one of the beds, his mind still restlessly ticking over.

* * *

Sam crouched beside Rascha, both of them tucked under the overhanging branches of a small thorn tree, twenty yards from the brackish watering hole. Neither spoke or moved, waiting, as the sky paled slowly to the east, for the animals that would come to drink here.

Sam's gaze was on the water, but unfocussed. It was something Rascha had taught him, about hunting animals, not to focus, but to diffuse his attention, to blend in with the soil, the plants, the rocks … not a living aware creature, but a part of the environment.

"_Animals have senses that are more attuned to living things than ours are, although we can train our senses to be the same. An animal will feel itself being watched, will feel the intensity of attention on it. So you become … still, within as well as without, without emotion or thought, nothing to make you different from the rock you sit beside, the tree you sit under, the soil under your feet."_

He'd understood the concept, but had found putting it into practice a lot harder than he'd thought. Stray thoughts flitted through his mind and it had taken a while for him to learn to ignore them, to let his mind empty and become quiet and passively receptive.

The small gazelle approached from the north, walking a little this way, a little that, as she searched for danger. Behind her, several others waited, alert and ready to leap and run at the first sign of anything alarming. Sam watched her enter his field of vision without registering her at all.

She came up to the water's edge and waited, looking around. Then she dipped her head and drank a little. The rest of the small herd followed her down to the hole, still watchful, still alert, but thirsty now. When all eight animals were drinking, the two hunters drew and fired together, each arrow taking a gazelle precisely behind the shoulder, piercing the ribcage and finding the wildly beating heart.

The rest of the gazelle fled, and Sam was just rising from his crouch when the cat leapt out from a larger group of thorn trees, on the other side of the watering hole, tail lashing as she fixed her golden gaze on him.

He froze, staring back at the lioness, the analytical part of his mind noting that she was smaller than the lions of Africa, lighter-framed, closer in size and appearance to a cougar.

"Sam." Rascha's voice was a whisper next to his knees. "Move very slowly to your left."

Sam felt a trickle of sweat run down behind his ear. Left? That would take him closer to the lioness. He swallowed and eased his left foot across the sand, shifting his weight and sliding his right foot after. His knife was sheathed behind his right hip, and he reached slowly for it, pulling it free as he slid to the left another step.

The cat watched him, eyes narrowed. The tail had stopped moving and he could see the muscles of hindquarters and shoulders contracting, the pads of the large feet spreading out a little as she readied herself to attack.

Didn't lionesses hunt in groups? The thought flashed through his mind as she sprang, straight at him. He tensed, ready to jump to the side, his fingers gripping the knife hilt tightly and heard the whap and whistle as Rascha fired his first arrow, saw it hit the cat's side, behind the shoulder, the impact pushing it sideways, the second arrow already fired and punching through the big artery of the neck, above the windpipe.

The cat lay on her side, panting fast as the arrowheads worked deeper into her. Sam turned slowly toward her, hearing Rascha rising behind him. They walked to the lioness, as her breath stopped and Sam watched the beautiful topaz eyes glaze over in the dry desert air.

Rascha sighed. "A shame, she was young."

"I thought lionesses hunted in packs?" Sam looked around the silent waterhole. With the colouring of the fur, soft golds and tans and greys intermingled, he knew he wouldn't be able to pick one out, if there was one hiding there.

Rascha looked at him. "No, I haven't heard that. At least not here. The young males sometimes stay together for a while, after they old enough to hunt alone. But females seem to find a territory, mark it for themselves and live alone, except for mating season."

More like a mountain lion from home than an African lion then, Sam thought. He watched Rascha pull the arrows from the body, cleaning them and replacing them in his quiver. He pulled out a long knife, looking up at Sam and gesturing to the gazelle.

"I'll take her skin, Sam, you should get those two, the waterhole will not remain deserted for long."

Sam nodded, thinking of the eerie cries of the hyena he'd heard. He turned and pulled the arrows from the small gazelles, cleaning them. Like the lioness, the gazelle were smaller than he'd thought they'd be, about the size of a small goat or lamb. He lifted one and nodded to himself. Maybe twenty or thirty pounds each. He knelt and lashed the legs together, returning to the thorn tree for the staff they'd brought with them. Sliding it between the lashings, he cut both throats, and lifted the staff, the blood draining from the animals as he stood and waited for Rascha.

* * *

With the skin over the top, it took both of them to carry their kills back to their camp. Ruane made quick work of skinning and dressing the gazelle, her knife very sharp and many years of practice guiding her hands. Sam dug a hole a hundred yards from the camp to bury what they couldn't take. They would be gone before the scavengers came in the darkness to investigate the smells of blood and death.

On the other side of their small, smokeless fire, Rascha had laid the skin of the lioness out and was scraping the flesh from the hide. By evening, it would be clean and dry enough to roll and carry with them, and he would cure it properly when they reached their destination.

Sam and Castiel settled the camels, unpacking the shelters and setting them up. The angel found that the routine of their days, the travelling, the camp, even hunting for food or water, was soothing, calming. He had spent so many years, as an invisible watcher over the humans in his area, observing them but rarely wondering about them, that it astonished him that he could have missed these important discoveries – the peace that came from knowing what had to be done and doing it, the comfort of being close to another, close enough to share fear and doubt as well as the moments of happiness, the strength that came when several people were together, with a common goal – all these things he'd missed about humanity. Perhaps it had to be lived to be understood, he thought. Perhaps one had to be mortal to receive these gifts, be aware of death and its inevitability, before one could live.

Sam looked up at the sky. It was clear from horizon to horizon, pale right now, but the colour would deepen as the sun rose and gained in strength. He sat under the shade of the shelter and prepared the tea. They would eat in an hour or so, then sleep for several hours, waking as the dusk approached. Life was very simple here, he thought bemusedly, remembering the life they'd left behind, full of rush and drama and pain and loss. He wished that Dean was here, thinking that this time, in the desert with no distractions, nothing to be done but the travel and the small, daily routine, would have given him the rest he needed.

* * *

Dean woke abruptly at the soft noise. The room was dark, windowless. He heard the scrape of a leather sole over the stone again.

"Alis?"

"Yes." Her voice came from the other side of the room. "I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you."

"S'okay." He settled back against the furs and closed his eyes, listening.

The soft burring noise, laces being loosened from boots. Very soft clunks of them being dropped onto the floor. Leather making a whispering squeak as it was scrunched up and drawn off. The furs hissed slightly as they slid over each other. He heard her exhale, not loud, but long.

He'd been deeply asleep, he thought a moment later, restfully asleep, and now that was gone. He shifted, rolling over, looking for a more comfortable position. In the still air of the room, he could almost smell her scent, a light smell, of fields and woods, leather and wool, underlaid very faintly by a soft muskiness. When he'd been stuck with bed rest, his back healing, he'd become so familiar with that scent he'd barely noticed it. Now, it brought a host of memories with it.

He frowned and rolled back, shutting his eyes tightly as he tried to clear his mind. _Kiya, think about Kiya_. Long, dark hair. Big, dark eyes. He concentrated on her, but the images slipped away, without sufficient emotion to keep them vivid or bright.

_Fine. _Think about Sam. They must be almost to the Watchers by now. He missed cell phones. Any kind of phone. And bullets. He really missed bullets. And the car. God, he missed the car. On the other hand, he thought, turning over again, he didn't think he'd ever been as fit as he was now. Or as fast. When they got back … he felt the weight of the thought sink in and opened his eyes.

When they got back to their own time, their own world. Would that world even be there? He shook his head slightly. It didn't matter. The world might still be there, Bobby might still be there. The monsters would probably be still there. In that world, it would be him and Sam again. No friends. No family. The only other hunters in that world wanted to kill Sam. Probably him too. In that world, there were jobs and money and archangels wanting to turn them into condoms. And loneliness. And loss.

_What else is there to do?_

Valenis' words. Here, grief could be shared, loved ones were remembered by everyone. At home … there was only him and Sam and Bobby. And none of them knew how to make it feel better, make it feel alright. They kept on fighting, he guessed that was one of way of honouring their dead, but it was a fight conducted in despair.

He hadn't felt that despair here. There had been too much to do, too much to think about. He thought about never seeing the leader of Deep Ice again. Or the healer. Or Torgva, Lyre, Guin, Yuri, Elbek, Kiya, Marat … or Alis.

Never hunting a monster through a thousand year old forest, or across the glacier under a frigid white moon, with the knowledge that to either side, behind and in front, there were experienced hunters with them, hunters who would give up their lives for each other as unthinkingly as he would for them. Never going into a battle, in armour, sword in his hand, the feel of it as natural as breathing now, every skill they'd ever learned utilised to its fullest extent, to pit those skills and their bodies against a common foe and protect the people who needed them. Never working the fields, and at the end of those hard, long days, sitting with them, everyone aching from the work, drinking the icy cider from the casks that had been left in the river all day, talking and just being there, with them, a part of them.

Memories, like a wild, spring flood, filled his mind. Moments of peace. Moments of living. Moments that couldn't ever be replicated in his world, the world they'd come from.

He hadn't thought of going back, it was inevitable that they must, set things right here and return, as inevitable as the sun coming up in the morning and he'd never even asked the question.

_Did he want to?_


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

* * *

"Rascha, stop." Castiel looked around, his eyes narrowed. "I've been here before."

They had crossed into Jordan four days ago, over a mountain range that was green and lush, heavily forested and filled with game and bear and wolf, the rich soils watered by the steady stream of moisture from the Mediterranean Sea to the west. The camels had remained unimpressed but had eaten well.

Descending through the mountains, Castiel had told the dark hunter to choose a route bearing more eastward, and they had found the desert again after two days walking. Last night, they had come into another mountain range, this one lower, and barren, the harsh red rock and pebbled canyon floors trapping the sun's heat within their walls until well after dark.

_Hammada_, Rascha called it. Bedrock scoured and carved into fantastic shapes and smooth flowing curves by ancient waters and constant wind, deep canyons forever shadowed, caves and hollows and ledges of dark basalt.

Rascha waited for the angel patiently, his camel shifting its weight from foot to foot.

"Yes, ahead there will be a canyon leading south. That is where we are going."

Sam and Ruane glanced at each other, and followed Rascha as he moved forward again.

"You've been here before?" Sam looked at Castiel. "I thought you were just … invisible, when you were stationed here?"

"I was. But a part of my orders were to keep an eye on the Watchers, and on the nephilim." Castiel looked up at the slice of blue sky above them. The hammada was too difficult to navigate through at night, and they would have another few hours of daylight before it became too dark to see their way.

"Cas, when Penemue came to the village – was that a vessel's body? Like yours? Or was it his own?"

The angel was silent for a long moment, looking down at the ground as he walked. "It was Penemue's body. There are different ways for an angel to fall, Sam."

"Anna tore out her Grace, and was born into a human child?"

"That is one way, yes. It was … unorthodox, but her timing was precise, the egg and sperm meeting at exactly the same time as she penetrated the cells. She was able to provide the cells with creative life, enough to make the human cells viable, to start embryogenesis."

"And the others?" He looked curiously at the angel.

"The Watchers fell before the war in Heaven. They were chosen by God to provide wisdom and knowledge to humanity. Their bodies are a … translation, almost, of their angelic spirits … their … frequencies … in a physical form that is compatible with the human genome." He stumbled through the explanation, seeking words that could explain it, although the words he found weren't accurately describing what had occurred. "So the Watchers are human-like, to look at, but also angelic in their appearance."

Sam thought of the single Watcher he'd met, and nodded. More beautiful, more … perfectly formed than an ordinary person, yet not so much that it would be too unnatural for a person to bear to see. Vampires also held that strange perfection, too-vivid eyes and marble-like skin. Most people did flinch from their beauty though, recognising instinctively the predator behind the iridescent gaze.

"What about those who fell with Lucifer?" he asked. Castiel sighed.

"When Michael defeated his brother, in Heaven, he cut off Lucifer's wings. And Lucifer fell. He looks … almost … mortal now, although he is not a mortal. The transformation from angel followed a similar kind of process as that of the Watchers, but not quite. Those who fell with him also had their wings cut off. I suppose some saint or prophet saw it happen in a vision at some time in humanity's history, because it seems to have taken hold as the only way an angel can fall in most of the speculation written about it. But it only happened to them, their fall was from Grace, neither freely chosen nor desired."

"What do they look like?" He wasn't sure if the demon Azazel, once an angel, had chosen his vessel deliberately or randomly.

"They are beautiful, and terrible. Their bodies are marked with the evil that lives inside of them and it is reflected in how they appear. Lucifer means _light bringer_ in Latin, and in Heaven he was. Filled with light and beauty, he was breathtaking, even to other angels, even to his brothers. But humanity calls him the dark angel now, and that is, at least partly, accurate. Still beautiful but the light that fills him is no longer bright."

He fell silent, and Sam walked beside him, waiting.

"For a long time, he had no human souls in the pit with him. And he tortured his followers for amusement and for release of his wrath." Castiel's voice was quiet. "Those who fell with him no longer resemble anything, neither angel nor human, not even demon. They are wraiths, composed of hatred and rage and pain, ruling the levels of Hell with only one purpose left."

"What's that?"

"To rise again, to destroy humanity and the works of creation and find peace in the everlasting darkness."

Sam shivered slightly at the angel's words. "Could they succeed?"

"If Lucifer is resurrected, quite possibly."

* * *

The walls of the pass towered above them, over a hundred feet and almost vertical. Dean looked at them carefully, looking for fault lines and cracks, weaknesses in the stone. To his right, the top was an overhang, reaching out over the road. This was the southern most pass that led to the hundred miles of villages along the river valleys of the mountains. He didn't think it would be difficult to close it completely. It was almost a quarter mile long, but barely sixty feet wide at the widest point, fifty or sixty feet above the road, and within the confines of the walls, they rode in shadow, the sunlight high above them, lighting only the top.

On either side of the defile, the ridges fell away, and thick forest crowded close to the road, the trees tall and old. The forest they'd just passed through, on the northern end, had been several miles deep, along the road, spreading further to the east and west, the slopes tangled with yew and alder, beech and oak and maple and hornbeam. The undergrowth itself looked difficult to get through.

He glanced ahead, seeing Alis turning in the saddle to look back at him, as she passed out between the walls of rock and entered the deep, green gloom of the forest. He heard the whicker through the air, and turned his head, the punch of the arrow almost knocking him from the saddle. Scrabbling to stay on his horse, he stared down at the straight ash shaft, white feathers incongruously bright, that emerged from his left shoulder, his right hand gripping his horse's mane tightly. Alis spun her mare around and galloped back toward him, his own horse spinning on its haunches and accelerating into a gallop as an arrow plunged into its rump. The defile wasn't straight, with two pronounced bends in the middle, which he thought, much later, was what had saved them.

As they rounded the second bend, he pulled his gelding to a stop, Alis overshooting and wheeling her mare as he threw himself off the animal.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't outrun them, and there's no way I'm letting them in here." His fingers fumbled with the ties on the saddle bag, yanking at the knots one-handed. "I've got to bring it down, right now."

She dropped from her horse and pushed him out of the way, her fingers working fast at the ties, pulling the bag off and handing it to him as he held the horses.

"We have to get that out." She stared at the feathered shaft in his shoulder.

"Later, this is more important." He looked up the road. "Tie the horses near the forest. And get your bow, you're gonna have to cover me."

Alis looked involuntarily up at the high sides of the rock walls to either side of them, understanding what he was planning. She gathered the reins of the horses and led them down the road at a run, pulling her bow from her saddle as she tied them, stringing it and nocking the first arrow on the string as she hurried back to him.

"Where?"

"In between the two bends. Do you have enough arrows?" He tried to lift his own quiver free with his good arm, face screwing up as the movement dragged at the barbed arrowhead still in his body.

She lifted it from him, swinging it over her shoulder. Their eyes met for a moment then she was moving along the rock face, senses straining to hear, to see, to smell the enemy as they approached.

Dean looked up at the rock wall and pulled in a deep breath. Climbing one handed was going to need every bit of strength and will power he had. And once he got up there, he could look forward to setting, priming and packing the small clay pots into whatever crevices he could find, with either one hand, or none if he also needed to hold onto the rock. He hoped he'd have sufficient length of fuse to be able to do this properly, a half-assed attempt might startle the demon-driven Scythians but that would be all.

He tied the saddle bag to his belt and reached for the first handhold he could see, a little above his reach. The movement brought fresh pain from the arrow, and he closed his jaw against it, pushing it back, ignoring it, finding a ledge with his feet, and reaching up for the next knob of rock above him. Just another forty or so feet, he told himself, where the rock starts to lean out, that will do.

The climb was agonising in its slowness. He couldn't look down, couldn't look anywhere other than for the next handhold, his feet scrabbling on the rocks below him to find an edge, a lip, anything to support him while he shifted his grip. A solid ledge, fifty feet up, brought a shudder of relief, and he leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply for a minute to shed the adrenalin from his body, stop the shaking of his muscles.

The crevice was narrow, but deep, and he slid the first of the small clay pots into it, pushing it as far as he could reach, the fuse dangling out of the hole like a tail. He looked along the broken ledge he stood on, seeing that it ran nearly twenty feet long this side of the wall, rising and falling a little but mostly straight. He inched his way along it, keeping his back pressed tight to the wall, his weight on his heels. The next hole was shallower, but above it, a long crack rose, zigzagging up the face, undercutting the convex curve of the rock above him. He cut the fuse and inserted it, leaving a reasonable tail hanging out. He'd already realised there was only going to be one way to light the fuses without blowing themselves up.

When the second bomb was placed, he looked down and wished fervently he hadn't. The drop looked much worse from here. He reached out and closed his hand in a smaller crevice, feeling his fist lock against the sides of the rock, then eased himself around until he was facing the wall again. He found another hole, down near his hip, and locked his closed fist into it again, then bent his knees and started to search with the toe of his boot for a foothold.

Climbing down took almost twice as long as the climb up had taken, and as his feet hit the ground, he realised that he could hear shouting and screams from around the bend.

Running to the edge of the rockface where it curved out in the bend, he crouched and edged the side of his face past enough to see. Alis stood half concealed by the broken corner of the second bend, firing almost continuously, the reach, nock, draw and fire motion a blur. Three horses and four men lay dead in the middle of the road, the grey fletching of the goose feathers favoured by the Deep Ice warriors bright against the dark colours of the soldiers. She was using the blood metal arrowheads from Kirill, he realised belatedly. He looked at the quivers on her back, seeing few feathered tops left in them, and looked up at the other side of the road.

If he moved back, and took the other side down closer to the forest, he thought the rockfalls between the two might be enough. He rolled away from the corner of the bend, straightening and running down toward the forest, crossing the road when the bend covered him from sight. This side was less vertical, and he climbed up quickly, ignoring the starbursts of pain that a too-quick movement caused, the steady throbbing of the wound, the way his vision was blurring and getting a little foggy at the edges. He tucked the pots into two crevices, much closer together than the first two, and packed the fuses in tightly. He missed his foothold as he turned, and bit back a scream as he skidded down ten feet of wall, the rocks slicing through the hardened leather armour like razors. Hitting a lower ledge hard, the impact jarring through his body and making his teeth snap suddenly together, his arms windmilled as he leaned out, then threw his weight back, feeling the wall behind him with relief. The fogginess around the edges of his vision was much deeper now, and he closed his eyes tightly, dragging in deep breath after breath, until it cleared away a little.

"Alis!"

He scrambled down the rest of the wall as fast as he could, looking up as she ran around the corner.

"They're right behind me."

"Can you see the fuses?" He looked up the wall to his right. She followed his gaze and nodded.

He pulled four of arrows from the quiver on her back, and they ran for the horses. Alis pulled out the small oil lamp she'd packed for camping, and poured oil over the iron heads. She dropped the lamp and nocked the first on her string, Dean pulled out his lighter, hoping there'd still be some fluid left in it. He didn't have the time to fool around with flint and steel.

The flame leapt up as he spun the wheel and the oil coating the arrowhead was alight. Alis turned and fired at the first fuse as the thunder of hoofbeats filled the ravine. She had the second arrow nocked and lit, and it found the second fuse as the first horseman came around the corner, bow raised and arrow flying toward them.

Dean watched the flames race up the fuses and disappear into the crevices, turning away as the first bomb blew. The outward blast brought down several tons of rock onto the Scythians in between the two curves in the road. The second explosion, under the overhang, spewed out more, and he and Alis ran back, as the slower effects of the two explosions gradually became obvious. The deep fault had sheared vertically and horizontally and the massive block of stone that supported the overhang was pulled inexorably by gravity downwards. It fell, and the crash sent a huge cloud of dust into the air, filling the defile and rolling toward them.

"The other two." He pointed to the other side, lighting the arrowhead, watching her spin and fire, the arrow finding the fuse, as the cloud reached them. Her fourth arrow missed, she thought, turning and running toward the horses, but the explosion behind them proved her wrong.

One Scythian, the first through, rode out of the defile through the thick dust, the arrow he fired brushing by her head, leaving a shallow furrow against her scalp. She fell forward, twisting as she hit the ground, staring up at him as the horse drew closer, her hand reaching for the sword at her hip.

"Roll right."

Dean's voice was quiet and calm behind her, and she obeyed it automatically, rolling fast to the right, out from under the horse's feet, seeing him swing the black blade high as the dust cloud rolled over both men and horse, hiding them and leaving her only with the clang and clash of the sword on metal, even that muffled by the dust that permeated the air.

She lifted her hand to her head as she got up, the scalp wound bleeding profusely but not deep, safe enough to leave for a while. The horses snorted and stamped as she went to them, the explosions and screams and ongoing creaking and groaning coming from the defile walls frightening them, her gaze locked onto the swirling grey miasma behind her, until the ring of metal ceased abruptly.

Dean walked out of the cloud, coughing and spitting out the rock dust, his sword red to the hilt with blood. She took the sword and wiped it clean, slipping it back into the scabbard as he leaned against his horse, his eyes caked with dust and bleary with pain.

"Put your hand on my shoulder." She bent her knees and braced herself as he slid his knee into her hands, his hand tightening around her shoulder when she straightened and lifted. He managed to get his hand onto his horse's neck, holding his weight over the wither, and swing his leg over the saddle.

"We need to make sure that none get through." He looked down at her. She nodded.

"We will. There is a stream, a mile into the forest. We'll camp there." She looked up at him. "I have to get that arrow out of you."

"Awesome." He swayed forward then back, and Alis' hand flashed out to grip his arm, stilling the motion. "Thanks."

She turned away and mounted, pushing the mare close to his gelding with her legs, until she could reach his reins. "Just stay upright for a bit longer, then you can rest."

"Okay."

Alis' looked back as they turned off the road into the forest. The slow-moving cloud had risen far above the defile, but she hadn't heard any noise since the last big rock had fallen. When they'd come out, after that first ambush, she'd thought there might have six or eight. She knew she'd killed four for certain. And Dean had taken a fifth. Had the others all been crushed? She hoped so. Neither of them were in good enough shape to take on another attack tonight. They would check, at first light. He would want to see if the pass was blocked anyway, she thought.

The clearing was tucked behind a thick screen of trees and undergrowth, the stream running along the northern side, and she stopped the horses, slipping down and unfolding his fingers from the mane, easing him out of the saddle. He shook his head as his feet touched the ground, knees sagging then straightening.

"I'm alright."

"Yes, come and sit down."

He leaned on her as they stumbled away from the horses to a log that lay to one side of the small clearing.

"Are we there yet?"

"Yes, we are here, sit." She tightened her grip, swearing softly at him as he apparently relinquished control over his legs and dropped, her arms holding him tightly as she lowered him the last foot or so to the ground. He let out a deep exhale, his head tipping back to rest against the top of the log.

She went to her saddle bag, pushing the clothing and food and pot aside and reaching deep to pull out the soft roll of cloth from the bottom. Just because she didn't want to follow her mother as a healer, didn't mean she didn't know what she was doing, she thought, taking it and unrolling it next to him. She unbuckled the leather chest plate and shoulder pauldron, her knife in her hand to cut the piece where the arrow had pierced free of the rest. The Scythian bows had powerful draws. The arrowhead had punched through the layers of boiled leather and the thin sheet of metal sewn in between them, driving shavings of metal and leather into the wound as well as the fabric of his clothing underneath. She pulled him forward and saw the point just protruding from beside the outer edge of his shoulder blade, the skin lifted but unbroken, closing her eyes at the thought of what that meant. The arrowheads were barbed, she could not pull it back out, not without ripping him up inside.

She leaned back on her heels, letting out her breath in a heavy exhale, and was surprised to find his eyes open and looking at her, understanding of what was needed in his face.

"I know where it is, Alis. Not a lot of choice here."

She looked away, shaking her head. "I can't."

"If you don't, I'll die of infection," he said. "I can't, but you can. You have to."

She looked back at him, her expression scrunching up as she saw his slightly crooked smile. She dropped her gaze to the end of the arrow. "It will hurt worse than it felt going in."

"Yeah, I know." He looked around, then down. "Can you, uh, get the belt off?"

Alis looked down at the heavy leather belt wrapped around his waist. She reached out and undid the simple knots, sliding it from around him and passing it to him. Dean doubled it with one hand as Alis moved around to his side, leaning close to his shoulder, lifting the heel of her hand to the blunt end of the arrow shaft. "Tell me when you're ready."

He looked up at her, his green eyes bright with pain as he smiled dryly at her. "Shit, Alis, I'm never going to be ready for this, go when you feel like you can do it in one move." He turned his head away from the arrow, lifting the belt.

She waited for him to put the belt between his teeth, checked that she had the correct angle, and then pushed, with all her strength and the weight of her body, against the end of the shaft.

The arrow point broke through the skin, emerging slowly under the pressure, the sight of the vicious multiple barbs giving her the anger to keep forcing it out until the head was clear.

Beside her, she heard his scream, muffled through the belt. As the head came out, Dean sagged against the log, his eyes half-rolled back, the backwash of the pain slowing and deepening, the aggravation of the barbs gone. Alis took the belt as his jaw relaxed, swallowing as she saw the depth of the bite mark in it and dropping it. She drew her knife, scoring around the shaft under the arrowhead repeatedly until it broke cleanly.

"One more, then we can clean it out," she said quietly, looking at his face, his skin dead white, the scattering of freckles standing out against it. He nodded and dragged in a deep breath, holding it as she pulled back on the shaft quickly. Blood flowed from the wound, pumped steadily with the beating of his heart, and he felt it running down his chest as she wiped around the holes on both sides, pausing to let it flow out and take the debris with it, her small supply of cloth quickly soaked.

She pulled a thick glass bottle from the roll and freed the softwood plug from its top.

"This will hurt too."

He didn't open his eyes.

Pouring the clear liquid into the wound from front to back, she flinched as the alcohol bit into the flesh, scouring it from one side of his shoulder to the other and his eyes flew open, his fingers clenching hard around her arm.

"What the fuck was that?" He looked at the bottle in her hand. "Alcohol?"

"Yes, slivovitz." She looked at him, seeing the name meaning nothing to him. "Plum brandy."

"Sonofabitch." Dean rolled his eyes tiredly, and held out his hand. Alis gave him the bottle, her brows rising a little as he lifted it and tipped it into his mouth, swallowing fast as the contents gurgled out. She lifted a hand as the level dropped to nearly half, wondering if he knew how strong it was.

"You didn't think to tell me about this?"

"You didn't ask," she said, taking the bottle from him and closing it. "I always carry it because it cleans the wounds out better than just boiled water and salt."

"Sure does," Dean agreed, almost amiably, his eyes half-closing.

She turned away and picked out a small jar of fine powder, taking several pinches and dusting it into the hole at the front, then the one at the back of the shoulder. Another pot held a thick, sticky salve, and she filled both sides deeply with it, then took several pieces of clean white cloth from their goat stomach wrapping, folding them over and covering the wounds, holding them tightly in place as she wound a long, woven strip of cloth firmly over both sides and across his chest, then back around the shoulder. Tying it off and tucking the ends into the bandage, she glanced at his face.

The slivovitz had hit hard, she thought, smiling a little as she saw the corner of his mouth lift up, his eyes crossing a little as he tried to focus on her.

"What'd you call it?"

"Can you stay awake a bit longer?" she asked, lifting her hand to his cheek.

"I'm 'wake," he slurred at her, nodding slowly.

Rolling the cloth up again, Alis got to her feet, returning the roll to her saddle bag and pulling out the small iron pot. She filled it with water from the stream, and carried it back to him, holding it steady as he drank a few mouthfuls.

When she lifted the pot away, his head dropped back against the top of the log, his eyes closing.

"Dean? Can you stay awake, a few minutes more. You need to eat –" she said, leaning closer to him, rewarded by a soft snore. Rocking back on her heels, she looked at him exasperatedly. "It would seem not."

* * *

Sam looked up at the towering façade in front of them, his brow creasing up as a memory filled him . "I've seen this before. This … was in an Indiana Jones movie."

He turned to Castiel. "Is this Petra?"

"No, that's further south. And a copy, by the way. This has been here much longer," the angel answered shortly.

The narrow gorge twisted and turned, and against the western walls, elaborate and detailed facades had been carved and hewn from the rock face, graceful columns and porticos, not quite Greek or Roman, or any period he could recognise, Sam thought as they walked along the sandy bottom of the gorge. Ruane and Rascha stared at the beautiful building fronts in awe.

Ahead of them, two men emerged from one of the doorways, walking down the shallow, broad steps to meet them. Both were very tall, wearing the white robes ubiquitous in the desert, long hair drawn back from austerely beautiful faces.

"My brothers." Castiel stopped several yards from them, inclining his head.

"Castiel." The Watcher on the right walked closer to them. The long hair was dark brown, his eyes a deep green, his expression tightly controlled as he looked at the angel.

"Araquiel." Castiel turned to look at the other Watcher. "Gadriel."

"You bring humans to our stronghold now, Castiel?" Gadriel stepped toward the angel, but he was looking at Sam, Rascha and Ruane as he spoke.

"It was necessary."

"We heard you were dead, Castiel." Araquiel looked at him. "That you died fighting demons, in the desert to the east."

Castiel frowned. "As you can see, an exaggerated account."

Araquiel's brows drew together, a puzzled expression shadowing his eyes. "Perhaps."

"Why are you here, Castiel?" Gadriel asked coolly.

"What happened to Kokabiel, Armârôs and Samyaza?"

Araquiel shook his head. "Not here. Come, it is safer and more comfortable inside." He looked at the camels. "If you go along to the buildings at the end of the road, there is a place for your beasts."

He turned and walked back to the doorway, Gadriel hesitating for a moment then following. Castiel glanced back at his companions.

"Rascha, could you look after the animals? This will not take long."

Rascha shrugged and nodded, taking the lead ropes from Sam and Ruane, and leading the camels along the road.

Sam followed Castiel to the doorway, feeling Ruane close behind him. The fantastically carved portico stood over them, and he saw Castiel walk into the shadows beyond. He climbed the two steps to the doorway and stopped at the threshold.

Ruane stopped behind him, looking up at him quizzically. "What's the matter, Sam?"

"I don't know. I can't …" He looked up, his forehead furrowing as he stared at Castiel. "I can't go any further."

Castiel walked back toward him. "What do you mean?"

"I can't move." Sam looked down at the plain stone blocks that formed the outer foundations. He lifted his foot but couldn't move it past the supports of the door. He lifted his hands and felt them settle against something, not solid, but not giving way either, as if the air had thickened in front of him so much that he couldn't press through it.

"Demon." From the shadows of the interior, Gadriel spoke softly. "A demon may not cross over this threshold."

Castiel glanced back inside at him, his brows drawing together reprovingly at the fallen. "He is not a demon."

Araquiel came to stand beside the angel. "Perhaps not. But he cannot pass."

Sam stared at them, feeling his pulse accelerate at the base of his throat. "I'm not a demon," he said, as certainly as he could.

"Ruane, step through the doorway." Castiel looked at the young woman. A little fearfully, she stepped around Sam and crossed the threshold, walking easily through the doorway.

"There is something in you that the trap perceives as demonic," Gadriel said.

Castiel raised his eyes to Sam's, both realising the problem at the same time.

"Go with Rascha, Sam. I will be there shortly." The angel looked at Sam intently, a warning in his eyes.

Sam looked away, his mouth thinning as he nodded. Ruane turned around and walked back out. They walked down the steps and followed the other hunter down the road, neither looking back.

"Castiel." Araquiel looked down at the angel. "Do you know why this human you are travelling with cannot pass the door?"

"It's a long story, and I don't have that much time." Castiel shrugged. "He is not a demon."

The Watchers exchanged a glance. "Then come, and we will tell you what we know."


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

* * *

Birdsong, dappled sunlight moving slightly over his face, a rustle in the grass away to his left. Dean opened his eyes slowly, looking up at the thickly leafed canopy of the tree over him, the branches moving a little, shifting and breaking up the thin shafts of sunlight coming through them. He felt the throb of his pulse in the wound in his shoulder, but distantly, as if the wound was days old.

Levering himself onto his elbow, he looked around the small clearing. The horses were grazing to one side, hobbled. A small fire burned in a circle of stones close by, the iron pot hanging over it steaming slightly. Their gear had been neatly stacked at the other end of the log behind him, bows unstrung, resting on the top of the pile. The thick bearskin slid off him as he sat up, feeling the cool of the early morning air against his bare skin. He looked down at the dressing that covered his left shoulder. It seemed to be clean. He lifted the arm slightly, feeling the pain increase as the muscles contracted, but not dramatically so. Some kind of pain killer, he thought absently.

_Where was Alis?_

He looked around the clearing again. _Hunting, maybe, for food?_ He glanced at the pile of gear, and the two bows on top of it. _Without a bow? Unlikely_.

The sounds of the forest ceased, and he felt a prickle rise up the back of his neck. He rolled to one knee, pushing aside the bearskin as he got to his feet. His sword and knife were on the gear, and he reached for the sword, his face paling a little as he had to grip the scabbard with his left hand to draw the blade free.

He looked carefully along the path to the road, but there was nothing moving there. There was a faint splash on the other side of the clearing, and he could see the stream now, curving in a small arc around the northern side of the clearing. Moved fast and silently toward it, he noticed the small path that led through the thick growth of trees right along the edge of the bank, the clear print of a small, narrow boot in the smooth ground. He turned onto the path, hearing the soft gurgle of the stream through the vegetation to his right.

He heard the splash again, more loudly this time, and slipped from tree to tree until he could see the next curve of the stream, the sparkle of the water through the thick foliage that ran along the bank.

He stopped next to a wide trunk when he saw her, standing mid-stream.

_Turn away_, he told himself. _She's okay, turn away_.

He didn't.

He couldn't.

She stood, knee-deep in the running stream, in profile to him, washing unselfconsciously in the freezing water. Lit up by the sunlight, her hair had darkened to mahogany, her skin was smooth and pearly, droplets gleaming as they ran down her body. He felt his fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword as she turned toward him, bending and lifting a handful of water to tip over herself. Heard his breath catch in his throat as he watched the water spill between full breasts, run down the flat stomach and over the curves of her thighs. Felt heat rise through him as he saw the vee of soft curls at their junction was the same deep red as her hair.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to turn away, hunching slightly as he leaned against the tree trunk. _What the fuck?_ The throb in the wound in his shoulder was much faster now, matching the acceleration of his pulse. _She's just another woman_, he thought, _you've seen one naked chick, you've seen 'em all_. It wasn't true and it didn't matter anyway. His arousal had been instant, and it wasn't completely physical, the sudden and fierce ache in his chest was something different, something he hadn't felt before, something he wasn't familiar with.

Behind him, he heard the splash of water again, and he pushed himself away from the trunk of the tree, walking back down the path, slowly at first, then more quickly, struggling with the desire to stop, to look back, to go back.

* * *

The interior of the cave had been smoothed and straightened and finished so that it resembled a grand room, the rock walls level and the floor paved with stone. Castiel followed Araquiel to the table that sat in the middle of the floor, and lowered himself slowly onto the cushions that surrounded it.

"Where are the others?"

"Researching mostly." Araquiel looked at him from the other side of the table as Gadriel settled himself at one end. "We've been trying to find out what happened since our brothers left."

"After murdering four of us," Gadriel added, anger showing in the pinched whiteness around his mouth.

Araquiel nodded. "A man came to the gorge, shortly after the Gate to the north was opened."

"He was looking for Kokabiel." Gadriel rested his elbows on the table, and Castiel saw that behind the anger, there was fear.

"He told us he was a believer, wanted to study with us, learn the wisdom of Heaven." Araquiel closed his eyes briefly as the memory rose. "He knew much about us already, but at the time we did not find that particularly suspicious. He took Kokabiel first, in the night, we think, because he would not have succeeded otherwise. We didn't see the change in our brother until several days later, just before they left. But Armârôs, we saw him change immediately."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "In what way?"

"He became angry, confused, disoriented as soon as the mage inserted the needle–"

"What needle?"

"We believe that it is how the mage controls them, Castiel. With needles of crystal and gold, inserted here," Gadriel pointed to the back of his head, where the skull joined the spine.

Araquiel nodded. "Belaziel found references, in African lore twelve thousand years old. There was a tribe, who had some kind of genetic anomaly, a stronger connection to the other planes, an ability to see beyond this world to others, for some reason."

"They may have come from another world, the records suggest that." Gadriel looked away.

Araquiel shook his head slightly, dismissing the speculation. "In any case, they were renowned and feared for their ability to work magic. And they constructed these … devices, to control people, demons and even angels." He looked at Castiel. "I didn't believe it, at first. Mortal, twisted soul, spirit, these are three very different creations and that one thing could work on all three seemed fantastic. But there is something in the symbiosis of the metal and stone and the frequencies of all three that creates a bridge into the mind – any mind."

"So the three are being controlled through the use of this … needle. If the needle is removed, is the control terminated?"

"Yes, we think so. The lore is oral and there may be some errors in the translations, but that seems to be the case."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Seems to be? That's thin hope."

"It's all the hope we have," Gadriel snapped at the angel.

"Did he say why he needed the fallen?" Castiel turned back to Araquiel.

"Kokabiel said that they were needed to find the true vessel, but it seems from what has transpired that he was primarily needed to form an army, an invincible army. Even after he fell, he had the demons, you know. They had to follow his commands."

Castiel nodded.

"The vessel is supposed to a man born of an angel and a demon." Araquiel's gaze slid sideways from Castiel to the other Watcher. "There is no reference anywhere that suggests that is possible."

"And to find the Corival, and destroy him," Gadriel added.

"What is the Corival?"

Gadriel's lip curled, his tone faintly derisive. "The defender, supposedly. The one who will protect the world against the rise of Lucifer."

Castiel turned and looked at Gadriel. The Watcher's golden-grey eyes looked back at him, his face expressionless.

"You don't believe in this, Gadriel?"

"Castiel, we have gone so far past knowing what to believe and what to disbelieve that my mind has stopped all speculation." The light gleamed on the Watcher's dark red hair as he bowed his head, staring down at his hands.

"There could be no mortal issue from an angel and a demon, Castiel. You know that as well as we do." Gadriel raised his head and looked at the angel. "And even if there could, how can such a being be so dual natured that Lucifer could claim the power of the souls of both Heaven and Hell?"

He shook his head. "And another mortal, claimed as the defender of the world? The champion who will fight the Lightbringer and destroy him entirely? A mortal? This is a tale for human children, Castiel, a tale for cold winter evenings and candied apples and spiced wine, not for the real world."

Castiel looked at Araquiel. "And you? Do you think this is a tale? Having seen three of your brothers, our brothers, captured and commanded by a sorcerer who knows magic that is older than any other? Having seen a Gate opened and hundreds of thousands of demons come forth to this plane and be locked into armies of men?"

Araquiel shook his head. "There are many things that have happened that I do not understand."

"Castiel, why is the human you are travelling with unable to cross our threshold?" Gadriel's voice was sharp, cutting over Araquiel's quiet answer.

"As a child, he was fed demon blood by Azazel," Castiel said bluntly.

"What?"

"Azazel?"

The Watchers' words ran over each other. Castiel looked from one to the other.

"Yes."

"This is even more ridiculous than the tales of a sorcerer who can control angels!" Gadriel snapped, rising to his feet. He looked at Araquiel. "I will return to the others, continue our research."

Araquiel inclined his head, and watched the red-haired man stride from the room. He turned back to Castiel.

"You are not from this time."

Castiel sighed. "No. How did you know?"

"There is something you must see. I don't know how it fits in with everything else … there are so many threads in this tapestry even the Moirai wouldn't be able to unravel them, but you must see it, Castiel."

He rose to his feet and Castiel got up slowly, following him from the room.

* * *

Sam sat on the step, his back supported by the wall of the animal barn behind him. The shadows of the gorge still lingered and the air was cool in its depths.

"Do you know why you couldn't cross the doorway, Sam?" Ruane looked at him. He turned to her, nodding.

It was inevitable that he would have to tell her about this, he thought, even though he'd kept that knowledge from himself for as long as possible. A fresh start was impossible. There were no fresh starts, no escaping from either the past or the future.

"When I was very young, a baby, a demon came into my nursery and dripped its blood into my mouth." He thought that the words, stark and unadorned, would make it easier to say, but it wasn't. He saw the horror at the back of her eyes. "The demon wanted to make an army, with special children to lead it, to take over the Earth. I was one of the special children."

"But you are not a demon?"

"No. I have … um, special powers, uh, magical powers, if I drink the blood of a demon."

She turned away, and he felt his chest constrict, his throat fill and begin to ache. When she turned back to him, he braced himself for what he knew she would say.

"Would doing this make you strong enough to defeat these armies? This sorcerer?"

The question took him by surprise. He looked at her, seeing the determination in her face.

"No, I don't think so. And I can't do it any more. I won't let myself do it any more." He looked down. "I'm sorry, Ruane. There is a lot I should have told you before, before this …"

"Sam." She leaned closer to him, lifting her hand and cupping his cheek, turning his face to look at her. "There is much you don't know about me also. There is time, I hope, for us to discover those things about each other. You are afraid, that what you've said has changed the way I feel?"

"Yeah." He looked into her eyes, a darker grey here in the cool, blue shade.

"It hasn't. The person you have been, since you came to our village, that is still the same. And that person is …," she hesitated for a long moment, looking into his eyes, "is whom I have given my heart to."

Inside, somewhere deep, he felt something unfold that had been bound tightly for years. It was very slow, the unfolding, tentative and hesitant and stiff.

* * *

"I thought you would still be sleeping." Alis walked into the clearing, brows raised slightly as she saw Dean crouched by the fire.

He glanced at her, and back to the pot. "Must have had enough."

Her hair was still wet, plaited back from her face, dripping slightly as she stopped beside him, looking down.

"Do you have pain in your shoulder?"

"Uh, no, not really." He kept his gaze on the flames, adding another small branch to it. It was mostly true, he thought, he had more pain elsewhere.

"Hmmm." Alis turned away, going to the log and picking up her saddle. "Can you ride?"

He looked up. "Yeah."

"Good. We should get going." She walked to her mare and lifted the saddle onto her back, reaching under her belly for the girth.

"Yeah." He stood up and started to walk to the gear.

Alis looked over to him. "I will do the horses, if you could put out the fire."

It took a bare ten minutes to break the camp and load the horses. Dean used the log to mount without help, and they rode in silence back to the road, turning south to make sure no demon soldiers had made it through the closed pass.

The dust had settled, coating the area around the narrow defile in white. The rockfall started fifty feet into the pass, the dead Scythian horseman and his mount marking the edge. Alis looked down at him with little interest, other than to note that Dean had somehow managed a chest thrust into the soldier, one-handed, from the ground. The broken rock that filled the narrow road was close to sixty feet in height, the overhang that had leaned over the western wall gone. She slid from her mare and handed Dean her reins, moving to the side of the defile and climbing quickly through the undergrowth and trees up to the ridge line.

From the top, she could see where his explosives had broken the fault line of the overhang, sending it crashing down. The entire section between the two bends had been filled. She edged her way along the top, keeping her distance from the crumbly new edge, until she could see the southern end of the pass. The woods were similarly coated in white dust for a hundred or so yards, with no sign that anything had moved in the vicinity after the dust had settled. She thought that the whole party of demons must have been buried under the fall.

When she jumped down the last few feet back to the road, he looked at her questioningly.

"Right between the two bends, it is blocked. There were no tracks on the other side, no sign that any survived."

"Good." He handed her the reins of her mount and turned his horse as she mounted. "We'll have to hustle to get to the northern pass and back in time."

She glanced at him. "Hustle?"

"Move fast."

"Yes, but we will let my mother look at your shoulder before we head north."

"No. It'll take too long."

"What I've done, it is just to keep it clean, Dean. If you want to keep the full use of that arm, we need to stop." She pushed her mare into a trot, turning to look at him. "It won't take more than half a day. We won't lose much time."

He opened his mouth to argue and closed it again as the mare surged into a steady canter, and his gelding followed. The three-time gait was more comfortable than trotting and he held his left arm against his chest, settling into it as he realised that she wasn't going to listen to him.

* * *

Castiel followed Araquiel out of the gorge and into the desert, squinting against the brilliance of the sunlight, reflecting from the sand into their faces.

"Araquiel, do you know what the prophecies were? Penemue said that Azazel discovered them, wrote them down."

"Yes, he did, nearly a hundred years before Lucifer took him down to the Pit."

The Watcher glanced at the angel beside him. "I know them, they are engraved on my mind like the words on a tombstone." He looked into the desert and kept walking.

"_And I saw, in the years of ice and flame and the trembling of the Earth, Heaven warred, angel against angel, divided by the creation of Man. _

_And I saw an angel made of light, a great and shining Morning Star, lead a thousand angels against his brother. And I saw that the Morning Star was defeated, shorn of his wings, and cast down from Heaven into the depths of the underworld, into a cage of ice, with all his followers. And I heard a Voice, beautiful and terrible, decree that his son would remain in the pits of fire and ice for a thousand years, punishment for his disobedience, for his pride._

_And I saw a Gate open in the mountainside, lit with fire and a light too unnatural to look upon, and from the gate and from the light came a cloud of darkness, pouring from the mountainside and reaching up and covering the stars in the sky, covering the moon and spreading across the firmament, a storm of black._

_And I saw, a man, wreathed in dark lightning, a man whose soul was as black as pitch, bind three heavenly children into a chalice of breathing fire, and call upon the Keepers of Destiny to change the path of the future. And I saw three Sisters change the path._

_And I saw, three men, who were more than men, take hold of the men of the horse, and capture them and bind them to their will, filling them with black smoke, until they were still, and blackness filled their eyes._

_And I saw, the end of the angel's punishment marked by a great celestial event. The Sun increased its brightness ten fold and there was a day without a night, and a night without a day, and the angel was released from his prison. On that day, the dragon returned. And I saw a mortal man, born of an angel and demon, who was his doorway._

_And I heard a voice say, in a land of fire and ice, under a midnight sun, when the Dragon is reborn, he shall have dominion over the earth for ten thousand years. All living creatures will be his vassals, and all power over Heaven and Earth shall be in his grasp._

_And I saw the Corival, mortal man, battle in a cavern of fire, and destroy with a thunderbolt. He rose up and became a dragon himself, wielding a sword of blood that was forged in fires of Heaven and the sword struck down the Dragon and the Dragon was gone."_

Araquiel's voice fell silent, and they walked on, each lost in their own thoughts, eastward, their shadows stretching out before them.

They had crossed into a long and deep sand drift and left the gorge far behind when Castiel saw the first flashes of white in the soft sand. He stopped and looked at the bones half-buried, their bleached white ends polished and gleaming. As they walked on, more and more skeletons were visible, some had the huge wings of angels. Some had the ragged ends of bone protruding where the wings had been, before being cut off. It took almost an hour to reach the thing that Araquiel wanted him to see.

He looked down at the bones in shock, the Watcher standing still behind him. The enormous wings had been spread out to either side, the long bones lying in their correct order, untouched by the scavengers of the desert, the faint scent of flowers and feathers still discernible close to the bleached skeleton. It was impossible, he thought. These bones had lain here for many seasons, many summers, many winters, the sands almost covering them, filling the ribcage and the hollow interior of the skull.

Kneeling, he put his hand over the forehead of the skull, though he already knew whose bones he was looking at. The sharp jolt that passed into him from the bone merely confirmed it.

The bones lying in the sand were his.

* * *

Sam looked up as Castiel walked into the cool interior of the cavern, the angel's eyes wide as they adjusted to the dimness after the bright sunshine outside.

"We must return, as quickly as we can."

"What happened? What did the Watchers tell you?" Sam got to his feet, walking to Castiel.

"They said that the sorcerer came here and tricked them, that he inserted magical devices into the three Watchers, and took control of their minds. It's possible if we can remove those devices, we can save them, stop this war before it starts."

He thought of the skeletons in the desert, his skeleton, lying among them. A battle between angels and the fallen. A hundred years before, Araquiel had told him. He had been in Mesopotamia then, in the previous line of destiny. Alive and watching humanity. There had been no fight with the fallen. Yet Araquiel remembered the battle. It had been why the Watchers had withdrawn to their hidden sanctuary. Withdrawn themselves from mankind for a while, until men's memory of the battle had faded, become a tale, become a myth.

Did it mean he was truly mortal now? Was this why he couldn't reach Heaven? The Watchers could not reach Heaven either. They spoke of interference, of being unable to see or to hear their brothers. Was that because the line had been altered? Or was it something the sorcerer was doing? Or was it something else entirely?

He didn't know. He didn't know what to make of the prophecies either. That the prophet had seen the war in Heaven seemed to give credence to the rest, but Lucifer's time was not now … or had the change in the lines of destiny changed that as well? He felt utterly lost, as he had when the realisation of the treachery in Heaven had broken his faith in his brethren, and when God's withdrawal had broken his faith in his Father. As he'd walked back to the gorge with the Watcher, he'd felt a sense of overwhelming urgency, to leave this place, to return to the mountains. That sense still filled him.

The Moirai had said that it was only the three of them who could defeat the sorcerer and destroy Lucifer. If it were up to the three of them, then it was best if they were together.

"Cas?" Sam watched the angel's face, the expressions chasing over it.

"We must go now." Castiel looked at Sam, at Ruane and Rascha. "I think we're in danger here."

Sam nodded, glad to leave this place that had shaken his belief in himself. "Alright."

* * *

They rode hard through the day, stopping only twice, to let the horses rest and eat, and for Alis to check the wound and change the dressing. By the time the last of the light had faded from the sky, they were close to Black Valley, a little over a days' ride from Deep Ice.

Alis had shot two plump pheasants, and the plucked and dressed birds were roasting slowly over the coals of the fire, the tantalising scents bringing saliva to Dean's mouth as he leaned back against his saddle. On the other side of the fire, Alis was cleaning and repairing a stirrup leather, and he watched her through half-closed eyes, seeing a slight tension in her hands as she threaded the thin sinew through the holes in the leather.

"What's wrong?" The question came out without thought.

She looked up at him. "Nothing is wrong."

He looked away, chewing the edge of his lip. They had spoken more today than they had on the road south. He hadn't been able to bury the memory but he'd kept it out of his mind most of the day, unwilling to relive the feelings it brought. Unwilling to look at, or think about them at all.

"Why do you ask that?" Her voice was softer, and he looked back to her.

"Uh, you seemed worried about something," he offered vaguely, lifting his right shoulder in a slight shrug.

"No." She looked down at the leather in her hands. "Well, yes. A little."

He raised a brow at her as she looked up at him.

"The soldiers, the Scythians." She sighed and made a small, helpless gesture with one hand. "Their eyes were not … you know, like that first one we saw, all black … but they were empty, as if they were not really alive."

She put the leather aside, and drew her legs up, wrapping her arms around them. "My mother has travelled, you know, she has travelled through many, many lands. She used to tell me all sorts of tales of where she'd been, what she had seen. Sometimes she made things up, stories about things that couldn't be true. Other times she would tell me that some of the things were true. One of the stories was about a witch who could make the dead come back to life, but they weren't really alive, they were just bodies, walking around." She ducked her head, snorting a little. "That story gave me nightmares for weeks and my father forbade her to tell me anything like that again."

When she looked back up at him, the smile had gone. "Those soldiers were like that, Dean. Like dead bodies that were riding and firing and screaming when my arrows hit them, but with nothing in their eyes."

He nodded. He knew what she meant, had seen the dead like that, empty but animated.

"Possessions can look like that." He shifted against the saddle, looking at the fire. "The demon is inside all the time, but mostly you can't see it. Sometimes a person is strong enough to hold it, to regain control of their bodies, of themselves, but mostly the demons are too strong. And sometimes there doesn't seem to be anything in there. Just an emptiness."

"If they win, will the demons do that to all people? Make them into puppets, for their own amusement?"

He stared at the flames. "I don't know. I don't know what they'll do if they win."

"Can we stop them?" She stared at him, and across the fire, he could feel the answer she wanted from him. He didn't know if they could or not. He opened his mouth to give her the sugar-coated response then stopped. She was a hunter, and he didn't want to lie anymore, not to her, not to anyone.

"I don't know." He straightened a little against the saddle. "I know that we can make it hard for them, I know that we can fight them."

He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face. "Cas and Sam will have more information for us. If you know what something is, you can kill it."

His eyes met hers across the firelight and she nodded, knowing that. He saw the fear dissolve in them, saw them harden with resolve, felt that resolve harden inside himself as well.


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

* * *

"_Sam." The man sitting beside looked at him with compassion. "My heart breaks for you. The weight on your shoulders, what you've done, what you still have to do. It is more than anyone could bear. If there was some other way ... but there isn't. I will never lie to you. I will never trick you. But you will say yes to me."_

_Sam stared at him, feeling his pulse beating fast against the base of his throat. "You're wrong."_

_"I'm not. I think I know you better than you know yourself."_

_"Why me?" The question had burned for so long in him. He knew the answer now, somewhere outside of this reality, outside of this memory._

_"Because it had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you." The dark angel smiled and he wasn't in the memory any longer, he was in a cool, dim cave, the light gleaming oddly from the smooth curves and polished surfaces, a cave made not of rock, but of ice._

Sam jerked into wakefulness, his heart thundering against his ribcage, his breath rasping in his throat, disoriented by the heat and brightness that surrounded him after the frozen darkness of the dream.

"_It always had to be you."_

"_A vessel born of an angel and a demon."_

"_A demon may not cross over this threshold."_

"_You hold the bloodline of two angels."_

_Angel and demon. The one true vessel. It always had to be you. Angel and demon and no escape from the past, no escape from the future, it always had to be you. Had to be you. You._

The thoughts swirled through his mind, faster and faster, a whirlwind of pieces that were connecting together as he closed his eyes tightly, praying that it was all wrong, it wasn't him, not again, not in this place, this time.

He rolled to his side, stumbling and running from the shelter, making it to the thorn tree before his mouth opened and his stomach heaved and he dropped to his knees, convulsively vomiting until nothing else could come up but a little bile.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and started violently, twisting away and looking up.

Castiel looked down at him, a deep sadness filling the dark blue eyes, understanding and compassion in his face.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"You knew?"

"I realised, I came to realise after we left the Watchers. The Moirai said we were all connected to Lucifer, I should have seen it then, but I kept thinking of the prophecy in literal terms."

"They're hunting for me, then, aren't they?" Sam rolled onto his knees, getting to his feet. "The armies, the demons."

"Yes."

"Can I run? Can I hide?" He looked down at the ground, wondering which would be the best course, the course that would protect the people who were innocently standing between him and the fallen angel.

"I don't think so." Castiel looked around them. "The world is big, but not that big. They will find you, eventually."

"Can I lead them away from … everyone, make them leave the mountains?" He looked at the angel. "I could go on my own, just head, uh, north and east." Into the wilderness where there would be no innocent bystanders, no villages to burn, no friends to kill.

"Possibly." Castiel saw the shape of his thoughts and frowned. "It would delay their finding you for a period of time." He thought of what Gadriel about the defender. "But I do not think it would protect the people of the mountains, or the south. They are looking for someone else as well."

Sam's brow creased. "Who?"

"I don't know, exactly. Gadriel said that they were looking for the Corival."

"Challenger." Sam's memory provided the definition of the word instantly, though he couldn't remember hearing it before. "A challenger to Lucifer?"

"That seemed to be the gist of it." Castiel looked up at him. "A mortal who was supposed to defend the world."

"What do we do, Cas?"

"Go home. Prepare our defences, try and free the Watchers from the sorcerer." The angel shrugged.

* * *

"The wound is clean." Valenis looked down. "It will be several weeks before you have much use of the arm again, Dean."

He nodded. It had taken a couple of months before he'd been able to use the shoulder properly again after he'd taken a bullet through it. At least it was always the left shoulder, he thought.

Valenis packed the wound with a pungent paste, her movements fast and deft, before dressing it again. She glanced at Alis approvingly as she fastened the dressing in place. "You did well to keep it so clean."

Alis smiled slightly.

"Geny needs a healer. Katsha was killed by a bear four weeks ago." Valenis looked at her daughter. "You will stay there until he can send an apprentice here."

Alis' smiled disappeared. "We have to check the northern pass –"

Valenis shook her head. "Lev will ride on with Dean. You will go with them to the Black River ford. And stay with Geny."

Her voice was flat, the command final. Alis looked away, her lips compressing tightly, as she walked out of the room.

Valenis looked at Dean. "Lev is ready." She handed him the small clay pot of paste that she'd packed his wound with. "Take this, change the dressing once a day, fill the wound with it. It will speed the healing."

He took the pot and nodded.

"Do you wish to be released from your promise to Kiya, Dean?"

His head snapped up to look at her, mouth opening slightly in surprise.

Valenis smiled at his expression. "Whatever is between you and Alis, it is not possible to give yourself to two people at the same time." She turned away, replacing the medicines in the soft cloth bag she carried. "Elbek asked about Kiya. He seems sure."

He stood up slowly, uncertain of what to say. He couldn't stay with Kiya, could hardly look the girl in the face now, but the responsibility that was as much a part of him as his bones or his blood protested. Valenis glanced at him, and nodded, as if he'd spoken.

"I will tell her that she is free to be with Elbek." She gathered up the blood-soiled cloths and turned away, stopping after a couple of steps to look back at him.

"You do not know what you want, Dean. Alis doesn't either, but for different reasons." She shrugged slightly. "She is my daughter and I do not want to see her get hurt, but neither do I want to see her hurt others, and she has, and will continue to do so until she understands the fear in herself."

She walked out of the room, leaving him standing there.

* * *

Alis and Lev were waiting for him, as he came down the track from the keep. He slowed as he approached, seeing Alis stiff and tense, holding his horse and hers, looking away from Lev rigidly. Lev stood several feet away, looking in a different direction, his knuckles white under the skin as he held the reins of his horse tightly.

_This'll be fun_, he thought, unable to imagine what had passed between the two of them. "Ready?"

Alis nodded, leading his horse to the low wall that surrounded the well. He mounted awkwardly from it, unable to use his left arm which was the usual one to take the weight. He took the reins as she passed them to him, and watched her swing up easily onto her mare. Behind them Lev mounted, and followed them slowly out of the gates.

They rode north, climbing steadily through the thick forest. It would take them a day and a half to reach the Black River, and another two to the northern pass, _Vol'f Rot_, the Wolf's Mouth, Vasiliĭ had called it. He'd told the leader about the Scythian attack, and the successful closing of the southern pass. He wasn't sure if it had reassured Vasiliĭ or worried him more. They had counted on at least another month before the armies of the Watchers would be that close to them.

They should be back in time to help with the harvest, he thought. For the last week, thunder had been muttering around the mountains, but so far the storms had kept to the lower ranges, to the south and west of them. The harvest was essential, not only for supplies for the winter, but in the event that the army did eventually get through and held them in siege, there had to be full store rooms, and gleaned fields.

At dusk, they stopped, choosing a clear meadow above the river for their camp. One-handed, there was little Dean could do to be useful. He leaned back against his saddle, closing his eyes as the other two moved around, settling the horses, gathering wood for the fire, cleaning and dressing the game taken through the day for the pot. Alis and Lev worked in silence, and Dean shifted against the curve of the saddle, finding a more comfortable place for his shoulder, and drifting off to sleep.

* * *

He woke an hour later, at the brush of fingertips over his hand, to find Alis crouched beside him, a bowl with roasted meat, some kind of vegetable and nut paste and flatbread in it.

He blinked and took the bowl, wriggling upward. "Thanks."

She nodded and got up, moving back to the fire to get herself food, then out to the edge of the fire's circle of light, to sit and eat.

Dean glanced to his right and saw Lev drop his gaze, getting up and going to the fire for a bowl for himself. He didn't think he'd imagined the dark look he'd been getting from the younger, fair hunter.

* * *

Castiel and Rascha stood along the high edge of the wadi, staring into the east. Sam climbed up and looked out, shading his eyes with his hand as he tried to identify the long dark line along the flat horizon.

"What is it?" He turned to Rascha finally.

"Sandstorm."

"Do we have time to find a place to shelter?"

"Maybe." Rascha looked at Castiel. "We need rock."

The angel nodded, turning and moving down the loose embankment. "Two miles back, there was a rocky section."

They packed the camp quickly, unable to keep from glancing eastwards every few minutes. The dark line had become a dark wall, in the short time it took them to be ready to move. Rascha shook his head, harrying the camels along their backtrail, trying to remember how extensive the rock had been when they'd passed through the area.

They reached the outcroppings, and dragged the camels around in a semi-circle, close by the highest point of the rocky wall that rose from the gravel. Wrapping themselves in the shelter cloth, they tucked back against the animals as the curving wall of sand approached, tightly woven material wrapped around their heads and mouths, leaving only the thinnest slits for their eyes, the water bags pulled underneath the coverings.

The wind's roar had been steadily increasing as the storm got closer, and the wall of sand towered into the sky above them, the overhanging first line of the cloud overtaking them as they finished the crude shelter. When the main body of the storm hit them, less than fifteen minutes later, Sam realised why they'd needed shelter. The wind speeds were gusting over a hundred miles per hour, the coarse sand scouring everything in its path, reducing visibility to zero, turning the day into night. The noise of the wind rose to an unbearably high shriek as the storm moved over them, moaning and whistling around the rocks at ground level, the world reduced to darkness, noise and the thick, choking dust that filled the air, filled their nostrils, and ears, caked their eyelids together and infiltrated through the layers of cloth into their mouths and throats.

Sam sat next to Ruane, both of them with their legs drawn up, arms crossed over them, heads lowered into them.

Behind his closed lids, he saw the storm, from a different perspective, from high above it, on a mountain peak to the north, watching the vast cloud rolling fast across the desert. He looked around and saw a man standing next to him, taller than he, broad-shouldered and narrow hipped, dressed in tanned leather, a long hauberk of bright silver links over the shirt and leggings, and a finely woven tabard of white silk over that, embroidered with a stylised picture of a great tree on the front. His long, golden blonde hair swirled around his head in the updraughts from the heat of the plains below. The man's eyes were amber, like a wolf's, long and narrow. Sam stared into them as he realised he'd heard about this man before, from a boy. The memory returned and his eyes widened suddenly as the man smiled at him, leaning forward, his hand rising toward Sam's face, the ring on the forefinger touching his forehead, burning there for a second.

Sam jerked back, his hand lifting to touch the place where the ring had burned him, but feeling nothing but smooth skin there. He couldn't see anything, everything around him was black. A dream? A warning? He tucked his head back into his arms and shivered.

Deep within the storm a dozen men ran, oblivious to the sand and dust, the wind and noise. They ran like a pack of wolves on the scent of their prey, their eyes open wide, and black from corner to corner.

* * *

Dean drew rein as Alis stopped at the ford. Behind him, he heard Lev's horse snort. Alis turned to look at him.

"I go this way." She looked up the trail to the north. "You will find the Wolf's Mouth another two days along this trail."

He nodded, not knowing what to say to her. He turned his head as Lev pushed his horse up beside them, the hunter looking at her, also without speaking.

She turned her horse and crossed the shallow ford, the water splashing up from the mare's hooves.

"Come on." Lev pushed his horse forward, taking point, and Dean turned to follow him.

The mountains were steeper, the trail climbing around the contours of each peak, dropping into the saddles between them. The forest was now birch and pine, and they could see the year-round snow lying on the rocky peaks, still far above, the moving air bringing their chill down to them.

Lev rode at a steady pace, two or three lengths ahead, silent for most of the time. Dean was happy to follow behind, not having to make conversation was a bonus. He looked at the trail they were riding and wondered how easy it would be to bring thousands of mounted soldiers through here, especially if it were snowing. From time to time the trail edged drops of several hundred feet, narrowing to a width that would barely accommodate two horses abreast, let alone a wagon.

Twice he saw tracks, paralleling the trail, shapeless, rudimentary tracks that reminded him a little of the teddy bear paw prints they'd seen in Concrete. He was reasonably sure there wasn't a giant teddy bear roaming these mountains at this time, but he couldn't think what might have made them.

"Lev?"

The hunter drew rein and waited.

"What made these tracks?" Dean looked down at them. Lev glanced at them.

"Troll. They are not recent, maybe three or four days old." Lev pointed up the slope to the grey rock above them. "It will have a lair somewhere up there. It won't bother us, though, unless we go to hunt it, or stay here until dark."

"Huh." He looked down at the tracks again. "So, uh, what are trolls?"

Lev raised an eyebrow. "You've never seen a troll?"

"No, uh, we don't have them where we're from," Dean hedged.

"Oh. They're something like a cross between a giant and an ogre, but they're smaller."

_Wow,_ he thought dryly,_ that certainly gave him a good idea_. "An ogre?"

"You don't have ogres either?"

"Uh, no. Haven't really seen any giants at home either." _Other than Sam_.

"Well, imagine Torgva, only thirty feet tall." Lev grinned at him. "That's a giant."

The mental image was vivid and Dean shook his head. "And an ogre?"

"About half that height, twice the weight, much uglier."

Dean snorted. "Thanks."

Lev shrugged and pushed his horse forward again. From the way the hunter picked up the pace, Dean guessed that he hadn't been kidding about being in a troll's territory after darkness fell.

They were another ten miles along the trail when the sun disappeared behind the high peaks of the west. Lev bypassed several possible camp sites, making Dean wonder what he was looking for. The fair-haired hunter stopped when he saw the cave, dismounting and going into it cautiously. He nodded when he came a few minutes later.

"We'll camp here for the night."

"You expecting rain?" Dean looked up at the clear sky, and back to the hunter.

"No, we're not that far from the vampyre's nest and I'd rather have stone over my head and a fire at the doorway for the night, that's all."

Dean nodded and slid off his horse. The cave was big inside, with signs that other travellers had used it, a neat circle of stones, piles of ash inside, the slightly vaulted roof above covered in black soot and a ready pile of kindling and branches laid alongside it. They unloaded the horses and unsaddled them, hobbling them loosely to graze outside. Lev walked into the forest to collect enough firewood to see them through the night, and Dean filled the iron pot with water from a small spring on the path between the cave and the road.

* * *

They ate early, with the need to split watches, and push up the mountains as fast as possible. Dean watched Lev pull out his knife and honing stone when they'd finished the meal, leaning back against his saddle and angling the edge to the firelight.

"I've seen you looking at Alis, and a word of warning," Lev said, flicking a glance at the older man.

Dean looked over at him, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

"She's not what she seems to be, Dean." Lev looked down at the knife in his hands, lifting the blade from the stone.

"Yeah?" Dean looked at the fire. "She lied to you?"

"Yes. No. Not exactly." Lev frowned. "One day she was all over me. The next, I didn't exist."

Dean glanced at him. "Maybe she changed her mind. Women do that, you know. A lot."

"I should have seen it. Elbek warned me." Lev straightened up, putting the knife back into its sheath, the stone back into his saddle bag. "She stays with no one. Goes from one man to another."

"That's not against the rules, is it?" He wondered if the kid was going to get to the point.

"No. But it's not usual, most women have more … pride." Lev's eyes met Dean's, and he could see that despite the man's words, he was still feeling a lot of pain. "Elbek said she changed. I've only been with Deep Ice a little over a year, so I didn't see her before she was to be married. But he knew her before and he said she was different."

"She was married?"

Lev shook his head. "No. There was a – a problem. The man ran off the night before. I don't know the details. Only what Elbek said, that she was different before, and after she didn't care anymore." The young hunter shrugged. "Maybe the man ran off because she wasn't so different."

Glancing at him, Dean heard the bitterness in Lev's voice clearly enough. Sounded like Lev needed some more time to get over her. He quelled the desire to point that out to the younger man, thinking of Valenis' warning to him, about her daughter. That made more sense now, at least.

He rubbed his face tiredly. It didn't matter. Alis was at another village, and given their interactions in the recent past, it seemed unlikely to him that she was even remotely interested, no matter what Valenis might have meant with her vague insinuations.

Lev had the first watch, and Dean slid down along his bedroll, turning half onto his side, and closing his eyes.

"Wake me when it's my watch, Lev."

* * *

The storm raged over them. Sam could hear the occasional crack of lightning, and once smelled the discharge strongly, knowing that the bolt had hit somewhere close to them. He couldn't feel Ruane beside him, couldn't hear anything but the shrieking of the wind. He could feel the sand hitting him, pouring over him, the weight increasing as time went on. He remembered reading an account of an army, over fifty thousand Persian soldiers, who'd been buried in a Saharan sandstorm in 525 BC and never found. The thought was not reassuring and he pushed it away hurriedly.

At first, the touch felt like a heavy stream of sand on his arms, then the fingers closed tightly around his shoulders, above his elbows and around his wrists and he felt himself being dragged forward. He lifted his head, eyes slitted against the grit and dust, unable to see anything in front of him, he could feel the dust and sand over his lips, felt it spill into his mouth as he opened it, forcing him to spit and close it again, then he was out of the shelter, the wind and sand and noise scouring him, as he felt bodies close around him.

Under the wailing of the wind he heard something low, like laughter, close by his ear. He was lifted, more hands tightening around his ankles and knees, a thick arm wrapping around his waist. He felt the wind change, the force of it hitting him directly in the face at first, then moving around to his right.

They were moving north.

* * *

The storm died away three hours later, and the cessation of the noise woke Ruane. She shifted under the shelter cloth, hearing the soft hiss of the sand as it cascaded away and lifted her head. It was dark, but quiet and she reached out for Sam, to wake him. Her hand moved around next to her, finding nothing, and she opened her eyes, brushing the layers of dirt and dust from her lashes and lids, pulling the cloth from her nose and mouth, and lifting it to rub over her face. Still it was dark under the cloth and still she couldn't feel or hear Sam near her. She sat up abruptly, her heart accelerating, heaving against the weight of sand that lay over the cloth, pushing it back from her head.

The rocks and the camels were half-buried, the shelter cloth covering Rascha and Castiel was covered in sand, looking like a soft, curving dune. Sam wasn't next to her, wasn't nearby.

"Casteel, Rascha." She rolled onto her knees, tugging at their shelter, sweeping the sand covering it away with her hands. From beneath she could see them moving, and the first of her fears, that she'd been left here alone, vanished.

"Cas? Sam's gone, I can't find Sam."

The shelter cloth heaved back suddenly and the angel's dirt-encrusted face, coverings pulled down, looked at her.

"What?"

It took almost half an hour to clear the sand completely away from where they'd sat, rolling up the shelter cloths and clearing the sand from the camels, who heaved themselves onto their feet and shook the loose sand from their coats. In every direction, the gravel plains were smooth and featureless, the sand dumped by the tempest virgin and trackless. Sam was gone. They had no idea how it had been done in the middle of the storm. But Castiel had a good idea of who had done it.

He looked at Rascha and Ruane. "Get the camels ready. We're going now."


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

* * *

Sam woke as he hit the ground. He couldn't open his eyes, the sand and dust had hardened and felt as if his face was lightly encrusted in concrete. He rolled onto his side, brushing ineffectually at the dirt.

Water hit him full in the face, dousing his head and shoulders, chest and legs. He shook his head, wiping his hands down his face, feeling the grit turn to sludge as the second load of water slapped into him, followed by laughter.

"Get him up." The voice was ahead of him, a mellifluous tenor voice, out of place and shocking in the midst of the deeper, rougher desert voices he could hear around him. He wiped again at his eyes as hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet.

"Bring a bowl, let him wash."

Sam peered through his mud-covered lashes and dripping hair at the owner of the voice. The man was tall, dressed in the clothing of the desert nomad, the long white _tob_ covered by a sleeveless coat, his _kufiyya_ held by a four strand _iqual_. His eyes, unbearably vivid in the darkly tanned face, were pale grey, almost silver in the strong sunlight.

One of the Watchers, Sam thought. Not Kokabiel, whom he'd met in the dream that had branded him for the demons. Either Armârôs or Samyaza. He turned his head as one of the soldiers brought a wide-mouthed, beaten copper bowl, filled with water, and set it in front of him. He couldn't have cared less about washing, but had the feeling that it was important to the Watcher in front of him, and possibly counted for something other than cleanliness in their customs. He knelt, lifting handfuls of water and washing his face, then his hands, until the bowl was filled with sediment, the water muddy, and his face felt reasonably clean.

"Thank you."

The Watcher's mouth curved into a humourless one-sided smile. "Courtesy. Not often found in your kind. I'm impressed."

Sam looked down. "Perhaps you know less of my kind than you imagine."

The smile grew broader. "Diplomatic yet insulting. This might be less tedious than I thought."

He turned to the soldiers surrounding them and Sam lifted his gaze, counting rapidly the number of men he could see.

"Get the horses, we have a long way to go." The Watcher turned back to Sam. "We will be taking a wandering route to my master. Don't want to get too close to those who might feel compelled to save you, now that we have you."

Sam wondered which way was the long way. If the destination was somewhere above the Arctic circle, there were a few possible routes. He turned as a soldier came up beside him, gesturing for him to mount the horse he held. He swung into the saddle, and two soldiers gripped his hands, holding them tightly as a third locked shackles around his wrists, the chain that ran between them also running through a hole in the bow of the saddle. His ankles were chained and locked to the stirrups. He hoped his mount was sure-footed.

* * *

"There it is." Lev halted his horse and pointed up ahead of them. The pass was at least another few miles away, but they could see it clearly from the pass.

_Well_, Dean thought, _now I know why they call it the Wolf's Mouth_.

The pass was not a ravine or a cut. It was a tunnel. Through the open slit, he could see the blue of the summer sky behind it. Theoretically, a tunnel should be easier to bring down that a straight cut, but looking at it, he wondered.

"We'll be there in an hour." Lev looked back at him, and he nodded, pressing his legs against his horse's sides as the hunter moved forward.

The road dipped sharply downward as they descended the mountain to a broad saddle, then began to climb again, switching up the sides of the steeper peak. Looking at the hairpin bends, he couldn't imagine a wagon getting around them too easily. At least not a big one, he amended hastily as he saw a small farmer's wagon coming down toward them, the thick legged horse pulling it picking its way carefully along the loose gravel surface.

He and Lev drew their horses off to the side and waited for the farmer to pass them before resuming their climb. _Worse than going down to Tahoe_, he thought absently.

He looked down as the horses came over the last steep hump, the change in the sound of their hoofbeats indicating they were travelling now over rock. In front of them, the double peak rose sheer, like a great wall, sweeping to either side of the ridge. Dean's gaze ran along that wall in first one direction, then the other. The brightly coloured summer lichens seemed to be the only vegetation capable of clinging to the smooth planes of upthrust bedrock that formed it.

No one is climbing over that without ropes and pitons and some serious mountaineering skills, he thought, with a certain satisfaction.

"Are there other villages beyond the tunnel?" he asked Lev.

"No, the road twists down to the east, and the ground is very broken, rocky. This is used by the people of the eastern foothills, do to some trading or visit family, and by those who are travelling north into the empty lands."

He nodded, looking up at the tunnel. It was tall, possibly eighty feet in height, but narrow, no more than twenty or thirty feet wide. The two planes of rock had sheared and split, forced apart, leaving the gap. From the edges of the roof of the tunnel, long stalactites that had given the tunnel its name were growing down, water dripping slowly from their ends. He looked up at them, brow creasing as he realised the top of the tunnel was a different rock to the sides. The floor of the tunnel was gravel and soil, rainfall or snow melt washing sediment along each season, depositing it until the rock underneath had been covered.

They rode inside, and the thick soil covering muffled the horse's hooves, the high roof above them returning no echoes at all. Dean looked at the smooth walls, brows drawing together as he realised that there were virtually no crevices in which to place the explosives, and without a stronger blast than the black powder could give him, just piling them up inside was not going to do anything other than clean out any moveable soil from the tunnel. From the high roof of the tunnel, he could see the stalactites that were growing slowly down, even in here. Somewhere up there was limestone, a sedimentary deposit from before the ice age? He chewed slightly on the corner of his lip as they emerged into the blue shadows on the other side.

Here the ground fell away from them again, broken and covered here and there with the scree that was left behind after the ice retreated. Not a glacier, not up here, he thought, eyes widening as he realised that this must be the southern most point on the mountains for the last ice cap. He looked down, seeing the sunken valleys, the signs of the enormous weight of the ice. No wonder the peaks behind them were so young and high, they were probably forced up by that weight. The peaks that lay north were more rounded as well, although a few stood clear, jagged against the brilliant blue sky. To the east, he could see the foothills, and dry, brown plains, stretching out to another range. To the west, tightly forested mountains that seemed to drop down to a glittering dark plain. Not a plain, he thought. A sea. Sam would know its name, but it looked huge.

He twisted in the saddle and looked up the peaks behind him. From this side, the sheer walls were almost vertical, and the depth of the rock over the tunnel was obvious. A limestone bridge, he thought, between the two peaks.

Limestone was good. It was softer than igneous rock, and judging from the amount of water that was dripping into the tunnel below, it was riddled with holes already. The only question was, how was he going to get up there?

* * *

"I don't understand, Castiel, how could he have been taken in the middle of that storm?" Ruane walked beside the angel, leading her camel, fear and urgency filling her.

Castiel glanced at her. "I don't know, Ruane. I don't know how they found him, or how they took him. I only know we have to get back to the mountains, because he will be taken far to the north, and we must get him back before it is too late."

It wasn't entirely the truth. He hadn't considered that Kokabiel could have reached this far to mark a victim. They had known the Watcher was leading the army of the south. Had he felt them, as they'd passed through the country to the west of the army? He shrugged inwardly. It was not a question he would get an answer to.

The Watcher could not fly or instantaneously travel. He had only the means of the mortal to move around. Which meant that one of the others must have been sent after them. Penemue had seen the northern army through the eyes of his brother. It could have been Armârôs or Samyaza. Castiel thought it was likely that Armârôs was leading the army to the north. He was more battle-trained than Samyaza, more strategically inclined.

Which way would Samyaza take Sam? Not through the Caucasus. Having found the vessel they would not risk it by passing close to people, not knowing who the Corival was or where he might be. That left two likely routes, both adding a thousand miles to the journey. To the east, past the Caspian Sea and into the empty lands of Russia. Or west, across the Mediterranean, or possibly the Black Sea, and northwards from there.

Those circuitous routes would give them enough time to get back to the mountains. Dean would come, he knew. Even with the armies of darkness beating at the village gates, he would not be able to leave the search for his brother to anyone else. He wondered if they could possibly get ahead of Samyaza before he reached the north, then dismissed the thought. It was impossible to tell. Particularly without knowing the precise destination. Vasiliĭ said that his mother had lived in the taiga, on the edge of the northern sea. And the sorcerer had then lived within a hundred miles to the west. He thought Finland might be where the mage's legendary fortress of mists was located. And they had no choice but start with that. He thought there were two possibilities for the 'land of fire and ice' in the north, but as to which it was … there was no answer for that.

Ahead of them, the gravel plains stretched out under the starlight, and Rascha walked north and east steadily, leading the two camels. They would need horses when they reached Halab, Castiel thought distractedly. Fast ones, for by the time they reached the lower Caucasus it would already be autumn.

* * *

Sam swayed in the saddle, his eyelids dropping shut, then fluttering open as the horse under him climbed over the rocks. They had been riding for three days, changing mounts every six hours, heading due north into the mountains of Turkey. He visualised their route, and had realised that once they reached the Black Sea, they would probably head west. It would add another thousand miles on to the journey, to go around the sea. He hoped that would give Castiel, and whatever reinforcements the angel could get, enough time to catch up.

The Watcher, Samyaza, rode at the head of the loose column, the demon-possessed Scythian horsemen riding two or three abreast in ranks behind him, Sam in the middle of the line, with guards to either side. He wondered if he could get close enough to the fallen angel to withdraw the crystal needle. The way they were moving now, it was unlikely. But later on, he might get an opportunity.

His father had trained them to see openings, to make them if need be, because hunting was unpredictable and plans often failed mid-way through. He thought that he would be ready, if an opportunity presented itself. If he wasn't chained to the saddle the whole way. If he could get past the guards who didn't seem to sleep.

Dean would come after him, he knew. No matter where they took him, or how far it was. His brother's ability to come up with unlikely solutions to problems reassured him. He wasn't so great if you gave him time and resources to think of a strategy, but at improvisations in the heat of action, Sam thought, his brother had no equal. If Dean could find him, if he knew where to look.

He shook his head. Castiel knew that the sorcerer was somewhere near the Arctic Circle. A land of fire and ice, under a midnight sun, the prophecy said. The phrase nagged at him. He'd heard it before, but he couldn't remember where. He wondered how strong destiny really was. Escaping wasn't much of an option if it strengthened his enemies through some odd twist of fate. And if, as the grand finale, he was supposed to destroy Lucifer, then getting to him was at least a part of that goal.

Without the need to be strong, in front of his brother, in front of Ruane or Castiel, he could admit that the thought of the devil was scaring the utter crap out of him. He'd been possessed. That crawling sensation through his mind, his memories and emotions and thoughts, reaching into his cells to control his body, it still gave him nightmares. How much worse would Lucifer be? Would he even be himself again? Meg's possession had been a rape of his mind, his body, of his soul. She had enjoyed his pain. Had enjoyed holding up the worst things he thought of himself and raking them over him, drinking his anguish like champagne. Lucifer … the angel would rip him to shreds, he knew. Because that was what he did, hater of humanity, filled with rage that had festered for a thousand years. He shivered and locked the thoughts away again.

They crested the peak of the ridge and he looked tiredly down. To the north he could see more mountains, a long range stretching across the horizon. Below them lay forest and plain and lakes, spread out like a relief map. He tried to memorise the features as they descended.

* * *

Lev looked thoughtfully up the slope. "I could climb up there."

Dean glanced at him, wondering if that were an honest assessment or a young man's bravado. "Which side would be easier? South or north?"

"South, I think, this side is in shadow, too easy to miss ice in the folds of the rock."

The answer brought a reluctant one-sided smile to Dean's face. Honest assessment, then. "Let's have a look."

He turned his horse and they rode back through the tunnel, glancing skyward as they emerged on the other side. Another few hours to dusk. It was enough time to fool around a little here. Dean slid off his horse, tying it and walking to the base of the slope. There were small footholds.

_You wouldn't want to be carrying anything_, he thought, but that was okay, once someone was up there, they could use a rope to lift the casings up. He glanced at the young hunter who was staring at the slope on the other side of the tunnel. Could he teach him enough about placing the explosive, about running the fuses and lighting them, and getting the hell out of the way quickly enough so that he wasn't killed? Or the entire effort wasted because the right locations hadn't been chosen.

He looked down at his shoulder in annoyance. He wasn't crazy about heights, but the whole thing could have been done, to his own satisfaction, in less than half a day if he had the full use of his arm.

_Yeah, well you don't_, he snapped at himself, _so quit thinking about it, and think about teaching this kid what he needs to know._

He turned around and saw that Lev had already started to climb. The hunter's boots lay at the foot of the wall, and he was using his fingers and toes to find the tiny notches and cracks in the rockface, going up at a fairly good rate too.

He wasn't all that good at delegating. He knew that. He didn't like to give someone a job – especially not a dirty, dangerous job – that he could do himself. Except this time he couldn't. The casings would be packed. He'd do the fuse lines and wrap them, tell Lev to cut them enough to give him at least five minutes escape time. The burn rate was around forty seconds per foot, and it had been consistent across the last two dozen tests. He looked down the length of the tunnel. If he could actually find sink holes in the limestone, then ten of the casings, either consecutive or simultaneous, would break up the soft rock sufficiently.

Kokabiel would be coming up from the south, hurrying his army now, because summer was almost done. They would hit the southern pass and have to either clear it, or climb over it. If they stopped to clear it, even with the manpower he had available, it would be enough of a delay for the weather to take care of keeping them pinned down.

This side would be even easier. Once the tunnel was closed, the only way around was down and east, taking the long way along the lower mountain roads. A few scouts might get over here, but not the main body. Vasiliĭ said there were no passes to the east of the villages, only the northern and southern routes. So, like Mika, if they wanted to cross the mountains, they'd have to lead their mounts over the peaks. Judging from Mika's condition when he'd reached the village, the army wouldn't be in much shape to fight if they came that way.

His eyes narrowed as he stared down the tunnel, thinking of where the other army, the northern one, could be. Smaller army, they would be moving faster. He wanted to eyeball them, at least once, get a sense of them. It wasn't possible now, but soon. Soon he would come back here, and go for a look.

"Dean!" Lev's shout brought his attention back and he looked up. Lev stood on the edge of the bridge covering the tunnel, waving down at him. He lifted his hand, then cupped it around his mouth.

"What's it look like up there?"

Lev turned away from the edge, disappearing for several minutes. _Don't fall into a damned hole_, Dean thought edgily. _I can't get up there to rescue you_. He waited impatiently for the hunter to reappear, exhaling loudly when he saw the glint of the sunlight from the fair hair.

"I'm coming down."

Dean nodded, watching the descent uncomfortably. It took the hunter a lot longer to get down, but he'd been right about being able to climb.

"There are lots of holes up there, the ground fallen into itself." Lev took the water skin from Dean and drank deeply. The ground is boggy, wet a few feet under the top, will that matter?"

_Not if I make cannon fuse for the casings, there should be enough time_, Dean thought. "No, I don't think so."

"We should go now." Lev flicked a glance at the sky. "We're too easy to see here."

They untied the horses, and mounted, Dean wincing as the unthinking action pulled at the wound his shoulder. Eight more weeks, at least, he thought. He would talk to Torgva about some plate armour for his chest and shoulders, it couldn't weigh more than the chainmail.

* * *

The lights in the distance were like a mirage, Castiel thought. Dancing over the horizon, too bright for a campfire, but no city or town was built there. He glanced at Rascha who shook his head.

It would be safer to go around, but it would take longer. The entire desert couldn't be full of their enemies. Especially since Sam was gone, the Watcher who'd taken him would be moving fast, north, not stopping to camp and light up the desert night.

"We'll go straight," he said to Rascha. The hunter nodded and started walking again, clicking to the camels to pick up their pace.

Ruane walked along behind them, drawing her cloak around her. It was as cold at night here as it was at home, the sharp east wind piercing her clothing easily. The sense of urgency still beat in her blood, but she was no longer living on her nerves, jumping at shadows and waking with tears on her face. She took strength from Castiel, the angel's stoicism and practicality in the face of any situation was like her father, she thought. Deep Ice's leader had passion and imagination and a vast love but they were hidden, most of the time, tempered by the need for careful judgement, for understanding every implication of every decision made.

Sam, too, was like that, although she sensed a recklessness in him that seemed to contradict it. He thought about everything, she thought, but he would act on emotion, if the emotion were powerful enough. Alis had told her of the fight at Black Valley, when they'd returned from stealing the horses to find Sam covered in blood, exhausted but triumphant on the field, the bodies of the Scythians lying in heaps around him. When she'd questioned him, tentatively, about that day, he'd told her that he hadn't been thinking, that he'd become filled with a spirit of vengeance, and had only wanted to decimate the enemy and save his friends. He'd shaken his head ruefully at the half-memories he had, telling her that he didn't even know how it was he'd survived.

_You survived because your heart was pure, and the gods saw that and reached down and protected you_, she'd told him, matter of factly. He'd looked at her a little strangely and shrugged.

If they kept going as they were, they could reach Penemue's home in the mountain border in a week's time. From there, it would be a month's journey to Deep Ice, and autumn already upon them. She realised that this would be the first time she'd missed the harvest. The milestones of each year had flown past so quickly this year. Midsummer seemed barely weeks ago, yet it had been months. Would they be alive by midwinter?

It had not escaped her attention that she and Castiel and Rascha would have pass by the southern army to get home. That the villages and towns of the lower mountains might have been destroyed by the time they got to them. She shivered a little and walked faster, clicking impatiently to her camel to keep up. They would deal with whatever the situation was when they saw it, she thought, the echo of her father's voice in her mind. _Wasting time and energy on imagining might-have-happened was a profitless exercise that only fools indulged in_, that was Valenis, she thought, the memory of the healer's acerbic tone bringing a half-smile.

Castiel had told her that Sam was alright. That he'd been captured for a reason, and his captors would keep him alive and well for that reason. And as long as he was alive, they would find him, and rescue him. She clung to those words fiercely, whenever her thoughts veered too close to worrying about him.

Looking up, she saw that they were much closer to the lights now, and it was an encampment, a big one, with many fires burning and many shelters.

She looked at Castiel. "Is it safe?"

Castiel glanced back to her. "They are people, from the deep desert to the east."

Nomads, she thought. Valenis had told her about them, the healer had spent a year living with a tribe in the desert, before she'd come to the village. Fierce, proud, compassionate, honourable, she had always spoken of them with respect and love. She had said that they had taught her how to live again, when her heart had been frozen with loss, her spirit broken with pain. Ruane drew the hood of her cloak over her hair and kept walking, curiosity overcoming fear.

* * *

Sam tried desperately to stay upright when his feet touched the ground. His muscles had been pulled and stretched and pounded by the days' of unremitting riding, and he thought of his brother's comment about getting used to it with practice with a hollow laugh.

Samyaza was watching him, and he straightened up, locking his knees and shifting his feet to present the appearance of being fine, at least. The Watcher laughed and turned away, and the guards to either side of him, gripped his arms above the elbow and marched him to a small tent. Inside, a rough bed of hay and furs had been made, next to it, a small folding table with bowls of food and drink sat, steam rising from the hot food and tea, the scents making his stomach growl and his mouth fill with saliva. He dropped to his knees, and lifted his hands, holding the looping chain with one hand as he scooped up the food with the other and ate.

With the remounts, he thought they had been making close to sixty, seventy miles a day. Today, the mountains to the north had filled the landscape, from east to west, the western ranges of the Pontides, he thought. Beyond them, the Black Sea. He didn't know much about the countries that lined the western shores of that sea, Bulgaria, he thought, Romania maybe. The Ukraine was the northern coast. He wondered how populated those countries were in this time. They were mountainous, for the most part, he thought. The Carpathians nearly reached the sea, in Romania. He shook his head. He would know which route they would take when they took it.

The food was good, and plentiful and he followed the reasoning that poisoning him after dragging his sorry ass nearly five hundred miles was illogical. He stretched out on the fur-covered bed and closed his eyes, grateful to be horizontal, grateful to be still, grateful for a scent that was not horse, or sulphur, or blood, filling his nose.


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

* * *

The sun had not yet risen when the village went down to the fields, but the sky was pale to the east, fine ribbons of cloud showing rose and silver along their edges, promising a fine day with some breeze, the dew on the stalks wetting boots and pants, murmured conversations competing with the first birdcalls.

Dean looked at the fields, the stands of the wheat and barley and oats hip-high, the grain-heavy heads bowed slightly at the tops. He couldn't help with the cutting, the simple scythes needed the full movement of the upper body, both arms and shoulders, and he was a long way from being able to achieve that. Even the small sickles needed a better range of movement than he had. He couldn't help with raking or drying either, unable to make a decent fist with his left hand that didn't send shards of pain through the healing muscle. He could lead the carts, up and down the rows, collecting the dried stooks as they were gathered and bound. He could sharpen the blades, as the men came in from the fields, swapping blunted tools for razor keen ones. He sighed slightly as he walked to the heavy timber tables set along the edge of the poplars, where they would shaded through the morning, joining the older inhabitants of the village.

* * *

By the time the sun had risen a hand's breadth above the rim of the eastern peaks, half of the first field was cut, and the women followed the harvesters slowly along the rows, raking and gathering the stalks into sheaves, binding them quickly and leaving them upright along the row.

"What a face, Dean." Mya laughed beside him, her wrinkled face nut brown, her dark eyes bright. "You will be with the men next harvest, not with the old women."

He turned to her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "And miss out on your company, Mya? Nah, I'll just break a leg before harvest."

"You be careful with your flirting with us, Dean, we could take you up on it and then you'd be in trouble." Katya grinned slyly at him, her strong white teeth belying the fact that she would reach her ninety-eighth birthday this year. He smiled back and shrugged, looking along the edge of the long blade and handing it over to Elbek as the hunter passed him another, the edge dulled down, Elbek's grin creasing his face as he caught the last comment.

"Time for you to be loading anyway, young man." Anton gestured to the wagons trundling out on the fields. "You leave these girls to the men with the experience to handle them."

There was a chorus of laughter and cat-calls from the women and Dean stood up, shaking his head as he walked onto the field, taking the reins and leading the small, high-sided wagon slowly along the row. On the other side of the row of bundles of sheaves, young women, young men and children picked up the sheaves and threw them into the wagon.

As the wagons were filled, the handlers led them to the threshing area, where the flails were used to separate the grains from the stalks. Dean watched the women working as the wagon was unloaded, two of the men shovelling the mix of grain and chaff into the wide, shallow winnowing baskets. With the arrival of the mid-morning breeze, firm and constant down the length of the valley, the lighter chaff blew off the grains as the baskets were lifted sharply and the contents rose into the air, while the heavier grains fell back into them.

Valenis had told him that normally the grains would go into the store rooms outside of the village walls. But this year, they were storing all that they could harvest inside the village, making room in the barns and the keep, in the houses and workshops and in hastily built temporary storehouses, framed in timber and walled with twigs and straw and rushes plastered heavily together with river and glacier mud over the light staithes in between the framing timbers. The roofs were thatched, with alternating layers of birch and straw, to a depth of almost four foot. It had been the quickest he'd ever seen a substantial building go up. The season had been good for them, no late frost to blight the grain or damage the fruit and vegetables, and for the past two weeks, the air around the village had been sharp with the scent of vinegar and salt, as the excess produce from the gardens was pickled and dried and salted.

After the grains were in, there would be fruit to pick, the plums and pears already ripe and sweet, the grapes soon after, then apples. He nodded at the young boy who waved him on, leading his horse back to the field, thinking that he'd learned more about agriculture in the last five months than he'd ever known. The funny thing about it was that he cared about it. He still felt vaguely hungry most of the time, the food was good, and there was plenty of it, but everyone spent almost all day on their feet, working, and it was used up well before the next meal. Knowing that they would have enough for the winter was important. And making sure that there would be no pickings left for an invading army was very important.

He tipped his head up to the sky, closing his eyes against the bright sunshine, breathing in the rich scents that surrounded him. Sam would laugh, he thought, if he knew what he was thinking about. His brother, perennial bad ass, enjoying the morning, thinking about fruit and storehouses and wheat and straw and hay and barley. He smiled, a small self-deprecatory smile, as he slowed down to walk the wagon along the next row.

* * *

Sam caught the smell of salt on the air and lifted his head. As they came around the cliff wall, he saw the glitter of the sunshine from the waves, saw the long coastline unwinding in front of them. The small village at the edge, between the sea and the mountain, held a dozen roughly built houses, some built right against the edge of the rock plateau that dropped into the clear blue water.

Tied against the roughly hewn rock quays three boats were tied. He frowned as he looked at them. Double-ended, and big, they bore a remarkable resemblance to the paintings and reproductions he'd seen of Viking longships, the high prow and short masts, shallow curving bellies and doubled floors, providing bilges below the decks. There were three of them, and he felt his heart sink as he caught sight of one of the men leaning on the bulwarks of the closest, the flaming red hair and beard of a Norseman, and the dead black eyes of a demon.

Samyaza drew rein and waited for Sam's horse to come alongside his.

"I hope you have a strong stomach. The next leg will be by sea." The Watcher waved at the boats.

"A bit late in the season for the Black Sea, isn't it?" Sam had no idea when the best time to sail on this inland body of water was, he just wanted some time to get used to the idea.

"No, this is a good time. Another month, and perhaps not, the easterlies begin to bring storms across the sea then. But now, it will be very pleasant."

"If you say so." Sam shrugged and looked at the rest of the crew, now vaulting over the bulwarks and settling themselves around the deck.

The Watcher glanced sideways at him, a humourless smile stretching his mouth. "You'll have to do better than that, Sam. We will have plenty of time for you to think of interesting things to divert me with on the way up the northern river." He dismounted, handing his horse to one of the Scythians and vaulted easily into the first ship.

Sam looked down as the chains were unlocked and drawn free, and he was pulled from the horse. The two guards, who had not slept at all on the entire journey, caught his arms and dragged him down to the ship, lifting him over the rail and pulling him to seat in the middle of the boat. The chains were locked again, around the thwart that he was sitting on. He looked down at the chains and then out over the water. Even if he could get the chains off, where the hell would he go once they were out of sight of land?

By sea, it was somewhere around five hundred miles, due north to Odessa – or at least where Odessa would be in the future. Did Samyaza mean to travel up the Dneiper? Or the Volga? He shook his head. Did it matter? Five hundred miles on foot, by horse, would take weeks. But with a following wind, or any breeze that was aft of the beam, this ship would take them across the sea in six or seven days. He closed his eyes. Castiel might have reached Penemue by now, if the sandstorm had died off in hours rather than days, and nothing else had stopped them. It wouldn't help. By the time the angel reached the village and Dean, he would be halfway across the Ukraine, and they would never be able to catch up, not in time, not before winter buried the north in snow and ice.

He lifted his head, opening his eyes, watching as the six crew members readied the boat for leaving. All six were possessed, and he could see the binding links on their arms clearly. Samyaza and four of the Scythians were on board as well. He turned his head to look at the ships behind them. The remaining Scythians and the horses were loaded on them. Not all of them, though, he did a quick recount. Only fifteen. The others were staying … or returning to the army … or … hunting different game. The Corival, Castiel had said. The challenger. A man, an ordinary man, according to the prophecy.

Now that they had him, there was no reason for the armies to be hesitant. They would sweep over the mountains and leave nothing alive.

* * *

The camp was ringed by guards, four of whom escorted Castiel, Ruane and Rascha to the largest tent, near the centre. The angel ducked as he passed under the low flap of the loose door, looking down when he felt the change in the surface underfoot. The floor of the tent was spread with rugs, brightly coloured and woven tightly from camel and goat hair yarn, soft and yielding but tough enough to withstand the abrasive sand.

The man who stood in the centre of the tent was tall, the iqal around his head holding three cords, his face carved and seamed by the desert wind, the skin a deep brown, like a polished nut, his eyes almost black. Castiel stopped and lowered his head.

"_As-Salāmu `alayk_."

The man smiled, and bowed his head. "_Wa `alayka s-salām_."

"We saw your lights. We are travelling north, to the mountains."

"You are welcomed. I am Zilabias Hadji. Rest here and be my guests."

Castiel bowed his head and touched the fingers of his right hand to his forehead. "My name is Castiel. Your hospitality is very generous."

"The hospitality of the host is honoured by the guest, Casteel." The man looked around and gestured abruptly. Food was brought and placed on the low table to one side of the tent. "Join me. Eat."

"We couldn't impose on your generosity."

"It is my pleasure to speak with people who are travelling, please, sit, join me."

"We wished only to pay my respects, we do not require refreshments."

"But I insist. Sit, you are tired from walking over the desert. I can see it. Join me for coffee and tell me of your travels."

"Your generosity will be remembered in our prayers."

"Ah. Yes."

Rascha and Ruane were introduced and they sat cross-legged at the table. The ritual of coffee making was observed. Castiel was careful to keep the conversation strictly to personal matters of the sheikh and enquiries after his family and herds. Business talk could come the following day, outside of the tent.

* * *

When they left the black tent, the guards showed them where to set up their own shelters. Rascha smiled at Castiel as they sat cross-legged in front of their small fire.

"You seem very practised with the customs of the bedouin?"

"I … I lived in this area for many years, and I was curious about … men. I always thought that the nomads were the most interesting people, their code of honour and their dignity, in the harshness of this environment, seemed to speak of the good things that mankind was capable of."

"Have you seen them in battle?" Rascha lifted a eyebrow.

The corner of Castiel's mouth lifted. "I have. You think they're bad, you should see angels in battle."

He lay back on the thick woven bedroll, pulling the blanket over himself. "I think we will be safe enough here, to sleep without watches, Rascha."

"You are right. But I like to think in the darkness, Casteel. I will think for a while longer."

* * *

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes and looked up, as Elbek crouched beside him. The deep shade under the spreading hornbeam had been soporific, and he realised he'd been almost asleep.

"Time to get back to work?" He started to sit up and the hunter smiled, shaking his head.

"No, relax. I brought you another cup." Elbek handed him the cup of cloudy cider, ice cold from the river. "I wanted to thank you."

Dean tilted his head slightly, looking over the rim of the cup at the other man. "For what?"

Elbek looked at him, the one-sided smile dry. "For releasing Kiya."

He shook his head, not wanting to get into this conversation. "It wasn't working, it happens."

Elbek sat back on his heels, his face curious. "So it didn't have to do with anyone else?"

Dean snorted. "How much free time do you think I have?"

The hunter smiled reluctantly and shrugged. "Lev thought … never mind."

_Yeah, never mind_, Dean thought. "Vasilii said something about you two moving to another village?"

Elbek nodded. "Black River needs another healer, and more men."

"You're going to Black River?" Dean straightened up slightly. "I need someone I can trust there, to set off the bombs in the Wolf's Mouth, if the army start heading that way. When do you go?"

"As soon as the harvest is finished."

"Shouldn't you be helping them with theirs?"

Elbek shook his head. "Black River doesn't have the soils to grow crops. They trade with us for grain instead, fur and metal and skills."

"Right." He thought of the timing. "Well, consider a part of your evenings cancelled from now until the end of the harvest, you and Lev. I need to train you to use the explosives."

"I will tell Lev." He looked at Dean for a moment. "Thanks again, for … you know."

Dean closed his eyes, leaning back against the roots of the hornbeam. "Yeah, sure."

He heard the other man's footfalls receding through the thick grass. He wouldn't make it too complicated. Just how to set and lay the fuse. And why it was important to get the casings deep inside the rock. And how to make sure they had enough get away time. Simple.

_She would be back here_. The thought snuck in. He felt a peculiar flutter in his chest, followed by a spreading heat as a memory filled his mind. He pushed it away, sitting up and swallowing the down the cold cider. It had been almost a week, not long in the overall scheme of things, but long enough surely to be … to be past this. After all the practice he'd had, burying things, not looking at them, ignoring them even when they resurfaced in his dreams, how could it be so goddamned difficult to pretend it had never happened, that he hadn't seen, hadn't felt.

He rolled onto his feet, and walked back along the river to the fields. He didn't have time for anything other than what he had to do. He flexed his left hand, making a fist, and feeling pain leap in his shoulder, wiping the last traces of the image from his imagination.

The wheat was harvested and half of the barley. They would be finished with the grain harvesting by the end of the week, and he would ride back up to the Wolf's Mouth, go see if he could find any sign of the northern army, take Lev and Elbek and get those bombs settled in place, train the two of them on the way. The sense of time slipping away, of events speeding toward them had been growing in the back of his mind over the past few days. It might have been a reaction to being in the village, being involved in the normal seasonal activities … but it might not.

* * *

Sam turned his head to one side as the spray was blown back from the bows and covered him in fine droplets. His skin was crusted with salt from the repeated dousings, drying his lips and dampening his hair and clothes in the heavily moist air. The easterlies were a little early this year, he thought, watching the grey seas heaving around the boat. Above him the big sail bellied out, smooth and taut with the pressure of the wind, and through the planking of the hull he could hear the rush and bubble of the water as it raced along under them.

Behind and to either side, the other two ships were following close, the high bows crashing into the waves, sending sheets of spray high into the air. The wind was increasing, he thought, feeling it against the back of his head, warring with the downdraught from the sail. Samyaza leaned against the bulwark, eyes narrowed as he watched the sea, the sky. With mountains on every side, strong winds could turn the sea into a wild ride, whipping up the water into short, steep waves that could overturn even a deep-keeled vessel, let alone the shallow-draughted ships they were in.

The Watcher caught his eye and grinned like a shark. "Relax, the wind is backing, it will drop by tomorrow."

Sam turned away with a shrug. The four Scythian soldiers were leaning out over the leeward rail, their faces drawn and various shades of green. Even demons couldn't keep their bodies from feeling the stomach-churning disorientation of sea-sickness, he thought, taking some small measure of satisfaction in their discomfort.

This was the third day and they were surrounded by water, no land visible at any point of the compass. The wind had picked up through the night, and he thought they might be making six or seven knots, even against the chop.

"We've made three hundred miles, Sam." The Watcher lurched across the deck in time with the lift and drop of the bow, sitting next to him on the broad thwart. "By tomorrow morning we'll see Sarych on the horizon. From there we will be in more sheltered waters."

"Where is your master?" Sam looked at the man beside him. Samyaza had taken off the kuffiya and iqal, and his hair was long and black, bound at the nape of his neck.

"Ah … at the end of the world, Sam. He lives at the end of the world where there is nothing but fire and ice and water."

Iceland? He'd finally remembered where he'd heard the term the prophecy had used. The island lay between the British Isles and Greenland, it would mean crossing most of Europe to get to the closest point on the coast. "So we'll go west when we land?"

Samyaza turned to him with a faint grin, and for a moment, he saw something else in the Watcher's eyes, something old and unclean and sly, watching him. It disappeared abruptly as if it had seen that he had noticed it.

"No, north is our course, due north to the end of the world." The Watcher looked away, and compressed his lips slightly as he felt the wind falter against his skin and then strengthen. "We will just make it before the first winter snows, I think. Your friends will not."

Sam stared at him, and the Watcher's gaze returned to him, his face twisted suddenly, in his eyes something that looked like panic.

"It must happen as it was foreseen, Sam." Samyaza's voice was low and urgent. "It must."

* * *

"They are very fine camels." Hadji looked at them, walking slowly around the animals. "Yes, I think we can trade for these."

Castiel nodded non-committally. "They have served us well, but our needs will be different in the mountains."

"Yes. Camels are not suited to the lands of the north." He turned to his sons and told them to bring the horses.

Ruane gasped softly as the four horses were led around from behind the tents. They weren't large horses, perhaps a little smaller than the steppes animals. Two were chestnut, with lighter manes and tails, one with a small white star on its forehead, the other solid. A bay and a grey, dappled over the shoulders and rump followed them. Their heads were fine, large, dark eyes looking around curiously at the strangers, arching their necks and stamping small, hard round hooves.

Castiel looked at the deep girths, the straight, slender legs and nodded to the sheikh. "These horses are the finest I've seen, Hadji."

Hadji smiled politely. They were the least of his herd, although all strong and fit and well-trained. The trade was equitable. He nodded to his sons and they took the camels and the horses away, to transfer the loads, and saddle the animals, Rascha following them to help with the loading. When they returned, the horses stood quietly, knowing that once the saddles were on, it was time to work.

"Your generosity has eased our journey. May your table be always full, your family in good health, your battles end in victories."

"And yours, Casteel." Hadji stretched out his right hand, pulling the angel close to him as he took it. Castiel forced himself not to stiffen at the closeness of the man, returning the kiss on each cheek, lifting his hand to rest against his chest over his heart as Hadji stepped back.

"Good hunting, my friend." Hadji looked up at him as he sat on the grey. "Evil times demand great courage, great heroes."

The angel looked down at him for a long moment, wondering what the desert dweller really knew. Hadji's face was open and sincere, but devoid of any greater knowledge, at least that he could discern. He nodded and turned the grey away, Ruane following him, and Rascha her, leading the other chestnut. One shelter cloth had been left, along with the food that would perish in the moister air of the mountains.

* * *

To the north, they could see the outlines of the mountains that divided Syria from Turkey. They could now avoid Halab, Castiel thought, cross the mountains to the east of the city, and push on fast for Penemue. He felt a strong desire to see the Watcher again, to listen to his counsel. Penemue had lived here for a long time, amongst men, he had acquired a critical faculty that Castiel felt he was lacking in the ways of humankind.

He looked up at the cloudless blue sky, wondering if anyone was looking down at him, watching him as he'd watched. He had healed; the long slow trip had returned his vessel to health. But he couldn't feel Heaven. Couldn't feel the power of the souls when he reached out for it.

He looked down at the black and grey mane in front of him, unwilling to face the possibility yet that he was no longer an angel, that he was simply a mortal man.


	27. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

* * *

The early morning was cool and fresh, and Dean looked down at the sparkling white that covered the grass along the edge of the road. He turned, looking along the curving road that led south, taking in the thin mists that rose from the river, the parti-coloured foliage of the trees, watching as a light breeze touched the tops of the poplars along the river's edge and a dozen leaves twisting up into the air, falling slowly onto the moving water.

Behind him, he could hear the creak of leather and the snort of the horses as Elbek, Kiya and Lev mounted. He turned back to them, chewing the edge of his lip, as he pushed away the worry that was nearly a permanent part of his mental state now. The signal fires had not been lit. They still had time. He closed his legs against his horse's sides and heard the others follow as he rode up the track heading north.

They camped in the well-used hollow near the river the first night, and Dean explained to Elbek and Lev about the fuses, specifically how long they would take to burn to the casing.

"You can set them off with a lit arrow." He looked from one to the other. "It has to be accurate because the arrow will cut the fuse where it hits."

Lev glanced at Elbek and shrugged. "The ones we put on the top of the tunnel, in the holes, they must be set alight by hand, yes?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his hand over his face. "So you need to make sure the fuses are long enough to give you enough time to get down again, and away."

He'd made several hundred feet of cannon fuse for this job. It still wasn't enough to reach from the top of the tunnel to the ground. Guin had promised more yarn for him, but he couldn't wait any longer. Vasiliĭ had sent two scouts north, when he'd returned, to check the position of the northern army. They hadn't returned.

"You'll have five to ten minutes to get down after you light the fuses, but that's all. You'll have to leave a rope, it can't be helped, there's no way to get down that wall quickly enough otherwise."

"The … bombs … they are more powerful than the one you showed us?" Elbek licked his lips, the explosives seemed unnatural to him, although Dean treated them as any other weapon, respectfully but without fear. The power of the one he'd used in the demonstration had seemed godlike to Elbek, and he wondered about the advisability of using the gods' powers for their own purposes.

"Yeah, maybe five or six times more powerful." He looked at his friend. "They have to be, to collapse the tunnel."

Lev glanced between them and slapped Elbek's shoulder. "We light them and run like rabbits, Elbek. Like baiting the ogre."

"And we all remember how well that turned out," Elbek said, his mouth twisting sardonically.

Lev shrugged. "We are still alive."

* * *

Castiel clenched his fists against his thighs, eyes squeezed tightly shut as the curved bone needle passed through his flesh.

"You were not wrong when you said you were mortal, my friend." Penemue drew the thin line of sinew through the holes and tied it off, cutting the end and moving higher along the long cut.

The attack had come a day ago, as they'd passed into the forest still on the southern slopes of the mountains. Six horse soldiers, all possessed, had burst from the trees ahead of them, and the first arrow had taken Rascha through the throat as the hunter had tried to turn his horse and the packhorse. Ruane had thrown herself clear, rolling into the dense undergrowth, her bow strung in seconds and the iron arrowheads piercing two of the men, giving Castiel enough time to get back down the trail with the horses and arm himself.

He didn't really remember the fight that had followed. There were moments in his mind, a dark-skinned, dark-haired soldier, head thrown back, boiling with a livid red-gold glow under the tan skin as his sword had pushed through the chest. Ruane's face, half-covered in blood as she pulled her sword from a dead Scythian. The moment when the demon's sword descended toward him, the sunlight winking from the razor sharp edge of the curved blade, and he'd twisted sideways desperately, feeling the edge of the sword cleave him open over the bone of his shoulder. And Rascha's face, shocked and still, as he'd knelt beside him and closed the lids over the dark brown eyes.

They'd stripped the bodies and left them in the woods. Castiel remembered Dean's words about burning a hunter's body, and they'd burned Rascha's body on a pyre, overlooking the fall of the mountainside. Then they'd retrieved the horses and continued to the Watcher's home.

"Do you think it was a planned attack, Cas? Or random luck that they found you?"

"I don't know." The angel twisted around to look over his shoulder as Penemue tied off the last stitch and covered the wound with a thick dressing.

He stood up, looking around the big room curiously. The Watcher had built a fort of great stone blocks, against the tight valley end. He could feel traps and wardings inside of the walls, under the floors, Enochian, Aramaic, even Egyptian. He turned back to Penemue, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"This place is … formidable."

Penemue shrugged, tossing the blood stained cloths onto the fire. "I had a lot of time, and some help. It seemed a good precaution to take."

"Yes."

He turned to the long raised bed near the fire. Ruane was sleeping, her injuries dressed. The Watcher thought it would be a day or two before she could ride again.

"Can you contact Valenis? In the water?"

"Yes." Penemue gestured to the table behind him. "You should eat, Castiel, and rest."

"Later."

He'd told the Watcher of what he'd learned in Jordan, and of the demons who'd taken Sam during the sandstorm. Penemue had been unsurprised by everything except the discovery of Castiel's bones, lying in the desert. He had no memory of a battle between the angels and the fallen either.

"Could it be a part of the sorcerer's work? A false memory implanted in the Watchers, to stop them from becoming active against him?"

Cas had shaken his head helplessly. "I do not know. Araquiel was convinced of the event. He could scarcely believe it when I showed up there."

He couldn't understand the significance of the discovery. He was alive, but mortal. His bones, his real bones, were lying in a desert, had been there for over a hundred years. There was no reason to it.

"Can you see other things in the water, Penemue? Can you see Sam?"

The Watcher walked to the table, lifting a delicate silver ewer from the beaten silver bowl on the table and pouring water from it into the bowl. The water stilled, the last ripples dying away, quiescent and as clear as fine glass.

"Possibly." Penemue watched a cloud appear in the bottom of the bowl, dark and turgid, spreading like ink through the still liquid.

In a moment, the water in the bowl was black, reflecting his face back at him. He looked into the reflection, clearing his mind and leaving it empty and receptive.

Shapes swam slowly under the darkness, blurred and vague and amorphous at first, sharpening as they slid upward to the surface. He watched, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, as the images passed across the water, a storm-wracked sea, long northern ships tossing on the waves, the wind sending spumes of spray into the air as men struggled with the large sail. A glimpse of Sam's face, closed and hard as he crouched in the bottom of the boat, the glint of chain bindings, Samyaza's long dark hair blown back as the Watcher's mouth opened in a shout … the images faded and sank below the water and his eyes refocussed as his reflection looked back at him.

"Sam is in a boat, with Samyaza. The sea is large, and there is a storm. I saw two other ships nearby, the men were all possessed."

"The Black Sea?" Castiel stared at Penemue.

"I think so." Penemue looked up and over at the angel. "That would fit with the timing, wouldn't it?"

Castiel nodded, turning away. "Yes. Let Valenis know this as well. And tell her she must not let Dean leave until we get there. He cannot do this alone."

Penemue nodded, and turned back to the bowl, concentrating now on the healer in the north.

Castiel walked to the fire, looking absently into the flames. Crossing the Black Sea by ship. It was clever. Even with the danger of the storm, it would be far quicker than walking or riding. They would gain weeks on any pursuit.

* * *

Sam braced himself as the ship rolled suddenly, dropping off the crest of the wave and landing in the trough with a loud crack. Three of the Scythians were thrown from one side to the other, the fourth went over the bulwark, landing a few feet from the ship in the churning water. No one made a move to retrieve the soldier and Sam watched as the man disappeared beneath the surface of the waves, drawn quickly down by the weight of his armour and clothes, his upturned face white with terror.

The wind had not backed or eased, and the black line of squalls to the east was getting closer, the long narrow vessel losing way as the sail was reefed to a third of its original size. A few miles ahead he could see the towering cliff walls of Cape Sarych, the seas breaking in spectacular explosions of water and spray at the base.

If they could round the cape and get into the lee of the land, they would probably make it to the coast, he thought tiredly, uncaring of the outcome either way. His determination, his will to survive, to keep fighting, keep looking for a way to break free had vanished several hours ago, when the Watcher had told him gleefully that Castiel, Rascha and Ruane had been killed, in the forests of the foothills of the Pontides, by a scouting party of Scythians. He still wasn't sure if it was a lie to break him, or the truth. The details that Samyaza had given, that they'd been on horses, the design of the clasp that Ruane wore on her cloak, the tattoo on Rascha's forearm … the Watcher had seen them, he couldn't doubt that.

The ship rolled again, and the Norsemen swore at the Scythians, as the horse-soldiers, unused to judging the movements of the boats, reeled across the boat and crashed into them. Samyaza crouched, his back against the mast, staring at Sam, ignoring the chaos around him. Sam raised his head, looking into the silvery eyes of the Watcher.

"Run out the sweeps!" The command was shouted but barely heard over the whistling of the wind as it ran through the rigging. The sailors pushed the Scythians onto the thwarts crossing the ship, and ran out the long oars, five to a side, pulling the ship around and away from the sharp rocks that littered the sea out from the cliffside.

Sam kept his eyes fixed on the Watcher. He could hear something above the wind, a voice, the words lost in the cacophony surrounding him. His eyes widened as he saw Samyaza's lips moving, and the voice strengthened above the storm, the man's eyes rolling back into his head, showing only the whites. The wind eased and the seas around them began to drop. He twisted around to look at the Norseman on the tiller behind him, the muscles of the huge man relaxing slightly as he no longer had to fight the seas for control. The pale blues focussed on him, and blinked, changing to black as the demon riding him grinned suddenly.

He turned away, looking back to the Watcher. Samyaza's face was expressionless; the silvery eyes half-closed now.

"We are watched, and protected, Sam. You needn't worry that we will end up in a watery grave." The man's face split into a smile. "No matter how much you'd like that."

Sam turned his head, looking at the cliffs as they slid past, the water calming and smoothing around them, the storm left behind.

* * *

It was dark before they made the mouth of the broad river. The ship moved in between the banks, the long oars carrying them upstream against the current as the sail was furled around the yard. Here the river was wide, the far bank invisible in the darkness. Sam could smell the scents of the forests and marshes that lined them, though, almost overpowering after the single scent of salt-laden air that had filled their noses for the last few days.

His brow furrowed as he thought of what little he knew of this river. One of the largest in eastern Europe. Navigable in his time, but only to a certain point. What would it be like now, without irrigation or flood control or locks or weirs along its great length? He thought they'd have to return to land travel within a hundred miles or so. He vaguely remembered reading of a section of river where cataracts and rapids had stopped shipping from being able to move upstream.

"Sleep." Samyaza's voice drifted to him, although he couldn't see the Watcher now. "We will continue through the night. By morning, we will have to leave the river."

* * *

The sunshine beat down on the rocky hillside, still warm enough to raise the temperature under the hardened leather cuirass and back plates. Dean ignored the trickle of sweat that ran down beside his eye, remaining completely still as he watched the activity in the valley below.

Twenty feet to his left, Lev also lay face down in the short brown grass, watching the advance unit establishing the bridgehead, his eyes moving slightly as he looked for the leader of the unit.

Their gazes shifted together as another group of horses and men came riding up the narrow track at the valley's end. The man at the head of the group drew the eye immediately, the long hair that flew out like a pennant behind him was copper red, shining like the burnished metal in the bright light.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he counted the soldiers now filling the long basin. Over two hundred, all mounted. No signs of wagons or a supply train for these boys, he thought. Compared to what they were used to, the mountains would feed them easily. The valley was too small to accommodate the whole army, he wondered if the leader was planning on bringing smaller groups like this one at a time, leap-frogging his army into the mountains.

They would eat out every area, he thought. Just the horses, even if the demons weren't feeding the soldiers. Maybe that was the idea. Locusts, slow moving, but still locusts. Leaving nothing but death and barren land behind them.

He slid his hand along the ground very slowly toward Lev, watching the young hunter turn his head with equal slowness to look at it. Tapping his finger twice against the rock, Dean began to inch backwards along the rough ground, moving slowly a few inches, then stopping, his eyes never leaving the soldiers in the valley.

When they were finally out of sight of the valley and off the curve of the ridge, he rolled over and wiped the sweat from his face and out of his hair. They were too damned close, less than forty miles. He looked south, he couldn't see the signal fire from here, too many peaks in the way.

"We'll have to close the pass." He looked at Lev. They had planted the casings two days ago, Elbek and Lev climbing up, lifting the explosives one by one to the top, unwinding the fuses and setting them into the sinks. He'd revised the plan for setting them off when Elbek had drawn him a rough diagram of the position of the holes in the top of the tunnel, scratched out in the dirt with a twig. It wasn't as efficient as being able to set them off simultaneously, but he thought they would still do the job, daisy-chained together.

Lev watched Dean's brows draw together and waited for him to make a move. Dean stared at a shrub a foot away as he thought of their options. They were two days' ride from the pass, more than three from Black River. The army looked like it was settling in, but could he be sure about that? He looked back at the lip of the ridge and rolled onto his feet.

"Come on."

Lev got up behind him and they moved silently down the rocks, to the cleft in the ridge where they'd left their horses.

The Scythian's short sword caught a gleam of sun's low rays and that was the only warning he had. He found his sword already in his hand, the edge whistling as he cut across the body, blocking and twisting the heavier, shorter blade with his own, ignoring the shriek in his shoulder as he drew the long blood metal knife automatically from the sheath at the back of his hip, stepping into the soldier and angling the black knife through the join in the armour, between the ribs and into the heart. He jerked it free as the body lit up from within, spinning around and dropping to his knees as a combination of instinct and training warned him of the enemy behind him, the hiss of the sword passing just over him giving him the timing to rise, and drive the length of his sword straight into the off-balance body in front of him.

He glanced at Lev, seeing the young hunter pressed back against the rock, the soldier in front of him heavier, older, more experienced. From somewhere beyond the edge of the ridge, he heard a snap of brush as someone else forced their way through, and realised that they could be surrounded here too easily. Reversing his knife, he threw it, the flickering underhand motion driving the nine inch blade into the back of the neck of the man in front of Lev to the hilt, the body lighting up brilliantly as the demon inside died.

"We got more coming." Dean reached for his knife, pulling it free, sliding it back into the sheath, and grabbed Lev's shoulder, dragging him to the horses. He felt the man stumble beside him and looked down, seeing the long open gash on the outside of Lev's thigh, the muscle torn apart. Dropping a little, Dean put his right shoulder underneath Lev's and half-carried him across the clearing to the horses.

"Can you stay in the saddle?" He looked into Lev's face, wincing inwardly as he saw pain fogging the young man's wide blue eyes.

Lev nodded, reaching up to take a grip on the mane and the back of the saddle. Dean gritted his teeth as he lifted him up, his shoulder a mass of agony now. Lev picked up his reins as Dean half-ran to his own horse, twisting to lever himself up with his right shoulder, and seeing the flashing glimpse of another horse coming across the clearing from the corner of his eye as they turned their mounts to the trail and drove them into a gallop.

The horses knew where they were going, and Dean spared a quick backward look to make sure Lev was still with him. He thought of the trail ahead, of when he would be able to see the signal fire on the peak four miles from the tunnel. He leaned low over his horse's neck as they galloped along, remembering the accuracy of the Scythian archers all too easily and hoping that Lev was following his lead and doing the same.

They had one small advantage, their horses were well fed and well rested, the scouts behind them must have ridden theirs all day, first to the valley, and then climbing the ridge. He wondered what had given them away, then dismissed the thought as unproductive, glancing backwards again, looking low, under his outstretched arm rather than over his shoulder. They were falling back, their horses tired. Dean looked ahead. The trail would descend down the saddle between this ridge and the next, then climb steeply. He thought he would be able to see the signal fire on its high peak from the top of the next ridge.

How to get their attention? He could probably set something on fire but that would attract the attention of the army behind them as well as the sentinel in front. He needed something that only the beacon fire's watcher would see, something to get his attention discreetly. They wouldn't be able to keep up this pace, and he needed Elbek to be at the tunnel as soon as possible.

The idea came in the guise of a memory, something he'd seen years ago in a film. He straightened up slightly, closing his fingers on the reins, and the horse obediently slowed as Lev's drew alongside him.

"You got anything shiny on you? Glass? Metal? Anything that will reflect light?"

Lev stared at him groggily as they pounded along the trail side by side, then slowly nodded, lifting one hand from the mane of his horse to his neck. Dean glanced back, seeing the dust rising from their own horses, but nothing beyond that. _Please let them have dropped back far enough_, he thought, turning his head back to Lev.

The hunter tugged on something around his neck and extended his hand across to Dean. He reached out, his fingers closing around Lev's hand and felt the small round disc. Lev released his grip on it, and Dean's fingers tightened.

He looked down. The small pendant was silver, hammered into a flat disc, and polished. If they had enough time, it might just work, he thought, pushing his horse faster again and accelerating up the trail. Behind him, Lev's horse increased his speed to keep up with his stablemate.

* * *

Sam heard the thunder in his sleep, his eyes closing tightly as the noise segued seamlessly into the dream of the first thunderstorm, when they'd appeared on the mountain top, Cas injured, the low, slow descent through the forests, looking for shelter.

He woke abruptly as the cold fingers of the Watcher touched him, struggling to sit up on the damp deck of the long boat. It was morning, the sky overcast and heavy, but the thunder wasn't from the sky. He turned around, and saw the boiling white water several hundred feet ahead of them, his skin misted by the spume rising from the rapids.

"Back to land." The Watcher turned away from him, as the Scythians unlocked the chains and pulled him to his feet. The boats drifted slowly to the western shore of the river, moving out of the fast current. Along the length of the river bank he could see the forest crowded close to the edge, the trees huge and ancient, the understorey virtually non-existent with the lack of light coming through the interlocked canopy.

One after another, the boats were manoeuvred alongside the bank and the soldiers jumped the horses out, over the rail and onto the banks. He was lifted across, his guards manhandling him easily. A horse was brought up, and he mounted it, the chains run once again through the saddle bow, and his ankles locked to the stirrups. He looked down at Samyaza as the Watcher oversaw the soldiers packing the supplies onto their mounts. Had the Watcher broken free of his master's control, for a second? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything any more. Pain crawled out of his memories and over him and he tried to force it away. The Watcher had good reason to lie to him, to destroy his hope and make him despair. Castiel had died before and been resurrected, that alone should give him hope.

He looked up at the trees, seeing beyond the dark canopies, the leaden sky. _Don't let them be dead._ He didn't know who the prayer was to, really. Just that he needed help and there was no one else to ask.

* * *

Valenis stared into the wide mouthed bowl, watching the darkness in the water disappearing and becoming clear.

Alis looked at her mother's face. "What is it?"

The healer closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, turning to look at Vasiliĭ instead. "Sam has been found and taken by the Watcher, Samyaza, across the great sea to the west. Castiel, Rascha and Ruane were ambushed by soldiers close to Penemue's home. Rascha was killed. Ruane is injured, but she lives."

"And Casteel?" Vasiliĭ forced the words past the constriction in his chest at the news of his daughter.

"He was injured also, but not so badly." Valenis stared at Vasiliĭ. "Do you know if Dean is on his way back from the Wolf's Mouth?"

The leader shrugged. "He should be."

"We cannot let him go, not until Castiel and Ruane have returned. Penemue was very clear about Castiel's feeling about this, Dean cannot go alone after his brother."

Vasiliĭ nodded, grimacing slightly as he thought of the younger man's reaction. "He will not like to be told what to do."

Valenis made a sharp gesture. "That is too bad. He must wait."

Alis looked from her mother to the leader. "He is not stupid. He will not go without help."

Valenis looked at her daughter, one brow lifted at the certainty in her voice. "I hope that you are right, Alis. It would be poor hospitality indeed to have to lock him up."


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

* * *

The sharp ridge was high enough to catch the last of the sun and Dean stopped, staring south, finally picking out the square shape of the signal fire on the distant peak. He lifted the silver disc, angling it to catch the light and flash it toward the peak, unconsciously flashing three short, then three long, then three short again.

_Come on, look at me_, he stared at the peak, aware that he was straining to hear any sound from behind them, that his nerves were twitching, sweat crawling down his spine. _Look at me, and light the friggin' fire_. Three short, three long, three short. Three short, three long, three short.

Lev raised his head, his skin pale and damp with sweat, his gaze fixed on the peak. They both heard the faint snort from behind at the same time, Dean's head snapping around to check the trail, Lev's eyes narrowing as he stared at the peak.

"Dean, I can see smoke, they've lit it."

"About freaking time. Let's go." He tucked the pendant back into his shirt, pushing his horse into a trot, then a canter as they headed down the road southward. He looked back again, seeing two horses, then a third, crest the ridge, outlined against the deep red of the sunlit clouds behind them and shook his head, forcing his horse into a gallop.

The light faded quickly and he slowed down as they started to climb the next slope, unable to see their pursuers but knowing they were there, somewhere in the shadows behind them. He let the horses drop to a walk. They needed somewhere safe to get off the road for an hour or so, somewhere they could rest the horses and he could do something about Lev's leg. There wasn't much on this side of the tunnel. An ambush? He didn't think he'd have much luck with that, in the darkness, unable to draw his bow even halfway.

As they came around the curve of the peak, he could see the signal fire blazing against the rapidly darkening sky, the sight flooding him with a physical relief. Elbek would get to the tunnel, and blow it, he thought, before the demons behind them could get there. _Probably before we can get there either_, a distant voice in his mind remarked. He didn't care about that. So long as the tunnel was closed to the army behind him, his job was done.

He sensed rather than saw Lev sliding sideways off his horse, and his hand flashed out, fingertips closing on the sleeve of the young man's shirt, scrabbling to hold onto it, tightening and drawing him back before Lev's dead weight pulled him down. Still holding onto him, Dean nudged his horse closer, shifting his grip and looking around for anywhere to take him. He looked back down the trail and saw their pursuers, holding torches now.

_Well, that'll wreck your night vision_, he thought, catching his lip between his teeth, watching the flames shift and flicker with the movement of the horses carrying them. He was about to turn away when the movement stopped, the flames rising straight and steady, then dropping down, closer to the ground.

_Finally stopping for the night? That really would be too good to be true_. He watched as the torches were dropped to the ground, seeing the soldiers and the horses in the bright circle of light, unsaddling, making a fire.

He turned back to the trail, nudging his horse forward again. It could be a trick, he thought, making a big song and dance about setting up a camp and then sneaking forward through the darkness. Whether it was or not, he couldn't sit here and watch them forever, he had to take chance on them needing the rest more than he and Lev did, and staying put for at least an hour. If he could get them a bit further away, and then fix up Lev's wound, they could have a short break and keep going. A little further along, just as the road started to descend on the other side of the next ridge, there had been a small narrow cave, off to one side. It wasn't great but it would have to do.

* * *

Castiel stopped as silence dropped over the woods like a blanket. Ruane looked around, listening. After a few moments, they both heard the noises, coming from ahead of them on the narrow forest trail. Ruane backed her horse into the trees, fading from the path almost silently. Castiel turned the grey and rode deeper, behind the thick evergreen leaves of a spreading, sprawling yew. They sat, still and scarcely breathing as the noises got closer, resolving into the creak of leather and the clink of armour, seeing the shadows of the riders passing on the other side of the heavy foliage. Neither moved until the sounds had faded to silence and they could once again hear the birdsong and rustles of the creatures of the woods going about their business.

"That was the second party today, Cas." Ruane's voice was barely above a whisper. The angel nodded.

"How are we going to be able to avoid them?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but we must." He nudged the grey forward, glancing back to see Ruane following.

They had gone further west when they'd left Deep Ice and seen no one. If it wasn't for the need to get back as quickly as possible, he would have turned off the road immediately. But aside from the extra time it would take, the two living travellers they'd met on the road had both told them the same thing, the western mountains were full of Scythians as well. They had little choice but to do as they were doing, find a good hiding place in the day, sleep and rest, ride at night and hope that they could avoid the scouts and raiding parties and ambushes.

Ruane found the small cabin two hours later, deep within the woods. She'd dismounted and checked the entire area, seeing no prints around it, the firewood sitting against the southern wall dry and weathered, the floor inside covered with leaves and dust, at least a year's worth, she thought. They led the horses down the deer trails, approaching the cabin obliquely through the forest, crossing the stream twice to hide their tracks. Even with bone dry wood, lighting a fire would be taking too great a chance, and they ate the moistened flatbread from the packs and fruit picked wild from the forest. The horses, hobbled, but otherwise loose, grazed the long grass in the clearing between the cabin and the small stream, and they settled down on their bedrolls on the floor.

Castiel lay on his back, staring at the aged timber rafters above. It was ridiculous to think about Guin now, he thought irritably, when their lives where in danger, when their route was so perilous. Still, the thoughts of the quiet woman kept creeping into his mind. After several attempts to clear his mind for sleep, he gave up, rolling onto his side.

"Ruane?"

"What is it, Cas?" Her voice was clear, and he thought she must also be having trouble finding sleep.

"How do you feel about Sam?"

The silence from the other bed made him wonder if the question had been too personal, or impolite.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked such a private-"

"No, it is not that, Casteel." Ruane rolled onto her elbow, looking at the angel. "I suppose I love him, although it is the first time I've thought that about anyone."

"What makes you think that it is love then?"

She laughed softly. "I think of him often, every day, and hope that he is well, not injured, not … unhappy. Sometimes I cannot shut him from my thoughts at all, even if I should be concentrating on something else. I am happy when he is here, near me, and sad and lonely when he is not." She looked down at the smooth fur that lay over her. "I think of Midsummer's Eve, and what we did together, and how it felt to see the same things in his eyes and face the following day."

"And those things mean that you love him?"

"I suppose so. I haven't felt this way about anyone else." She looked up at him. "Is that the way you feel about Guin?"

He rolled onto his back, closing his eyes. He thought of their conversations, easy and comfortable, of the way her eyes wrinkled up a little when she smiled, more when she laughed, he thought of the softness of her hair, and the smell of her skin, and the way her fingers moved so quickly and competently with the yarn and the wheel and the loom, and the way he felt when he was inside of her, and she looked at him, eyes half-closed. "Yes, I think so."

"I didn't know angels could love, Casteel."

He sighed deeply. "I don't think I'm an angel any more, Ruane."

* * *

Sam looked around nervously, his eyes wide, trying to penetrate the darkness between the trees, the shadows under the thick undergrowth. Something was tracking them, he could feel it, something that moved only when his gaze was turned elsewhere, stopping when he scanned his surroundings, something that was silent and almost invisible and hungry.

Ahead, Samyaza was apparently oblivious to the signs that they were being followed, riding without looking around at all, focussed on his primary task, presumably. The Scythians surrounding him seemed to be more edgy, watching the darkness warily, but he thought, without that instinctual awareness that the soldiers would have had if demons had not been riding them.

He kept his eyes on the back of the soldier in front of him, seeing the flutter of movement from the corner of his eye again, this time to the right of the column. The forest was silent, more so than when they'd entered, the horses' footfalls soft on the thick covering of decaying matter that covered the trail. He looked at the ears of his mount, seeing them flick back and forth.

The quarter moon rode in the skies above them, but under the trees it was black, the canopies still fully leaved, letting only a very few stray beams through. He shifted in the saddle, clinking the chains against each other, his nerves beginning to crawl.

There was a sharp snort from a horse behind him, and he twisted around, eyes widening as he saw the empty saddle two rows back, and at the same time the soldier next to the riderless horse realised his companion was missing, shouting out.

They stopped, staring around at the trees. Samyaza wheeled his horse around and rode to the back, looking at the empty saddle.

"You must have seen something!"

"No, my lord, I was watching the trees, along this side, and I heard the horse and looked and he was gone." The soldier's eyes were black across, and Sam stared at him, wondering if the demon were afraid. Bound to the flesh of the men, they couldn't get out if the body was killed, not even when it was fully decomposed, Cas had told him a long time ago. After centuries of torture in Hell, he'd thought that demons were only afraid of one thing, being sent back there, but perhaps being locked into solitary confinement for eternity was something else they feared.

Samyaza scanned the dark forest slowly, his gaze crossing Sam's and stopping for a moment.

"You know something of this?"

Sam shrugged. "Something has been hunting us for the last two hours."

"What?"

"I don't know."

The Watcher scowled, then looked at the soldiers. "Close up together, pay attention."

He pushed his mount forward, coming up beside Sam. "Protect the prisoner at all times."

Sam smiled humourlessly as they moved on again. He didn't think it would help. He should have been feeling terror, he thought as he watched the soldiers ahead of him, but he felt nothing, as if his feelings, his normal, human feelings, had all been cauterised. Maybe they had.

The next soldier was taken from between two others, right in front of him. He saw a flicker of movement, a second's moonlight on pale skin, then the soldier was gone, and his scream filled the air for a heartbeat and was cut off, the silence ringing around them afterward.

The horses had shied and run into each other, tossing their heads at a scent that filled the air for a moment, then vanished. He knew that scent as well, the rich coppery tang was as familiar as the smell of gun oil, or whiskey.

Samyaza twisted in the saddle, looking back, and Sam saw uncertainty on his face.

"Ride, fast, we'll outrun it."

The demons needed no further urging and Sam reached forward and gripped his mount's mane as they took off, a surge of horses and men, filling the road, the horses feeling the terror of the men and following their own instincts to flee.

They flashed past the trees, through the darkness, the soft thunder of the horses' hooves and the creak of harness and armour, the rasping breath of the soldier beside him, and the blowing of the horses, the only sounds he could hear. He looked straight ahead, but his peripheral vision kept picking up the glimpses of movement, of gleam and wink and difference in the darkness to either side of the road.

He felt the strength in the hands that gripped him, heard the chains snap as he was lifted from his horse in an upward rush, smelled the rank thick stench of fresh and older blood in a series of disconnected impressions, faster than he could register them, then everything vanished.

* * *

_Lost a lot of blood_, Dean looked at the wound, and the blood that had soaked the leather pants from thigh to boot. He cut the sticky leather away from the cut, exhaling softly in relief as he saw the blood trickling out slowly. _Not the artery, just the muscle_.

He'd cut several pieces from his shirt, and had made a strong saline solution to wash the wound, wishing he had alcohol of any description here as well. The cut was long and deep and needed to be stitched, he thought as he cleaned the blood from the skin, squeezing the solution along its length, flushing out the debris from the middle. He had nothing that could do it. Another thing to put on the list of must-haves.

When the flesh was clean, he drew the edges together as tightly as he could, laying the salt-soaked cloth dressing over them, and holding it all tightly as he wound the bandage around the limb with his left hand. He looked down at Lev when it was tight and tied off. The young man's face was pale, beaded with sweat. Dean pulled his bedroll from his saddle, covering Lev with the thick fur blanket and moving back outside to get food from the saddle bags. Ideally, he would light a fire and make something hot for the hunter, something to counteract the shock. Ideally, he would have cut off the hunter's pants and done a proper job on the leg. Ideally, Lev would be lying on a soft, comfortable bed being tended to by Valenis. He scowled in frustration as he listened to the darkness. Ideally, he wouldn't have been injured at all.

He found flatbread and dried fruit and took them into the cave, moistening the bread and putting the fruit into clean water, to soften slightly. Lifting Lev's shoulders, he eased him up and propped him against the sloping rock of the cave wall. The hunter opened his eyes and looked down at the food, taking a handful of the fruit and chewing it slowly, his eyes closing again.

Dean walked back outside, finding a vantage point that looked down over the trail. He settled himself against the rock, looking up at the clear night sky and picking a star that was close to a distant peak. His watch was packed away in his room, along with his gun and clothes, and he'd learned to use the sun and stars to gauge the passing of time. He wasn't as practised yet as most of the villagers, but he was usually within a half hour or so, and in this life that was all the accuracy that was needed. Looking out into the night, he watched, not trying to see anything in particular, but looking for movement, for changes in the darkness that gave warning of approach.

He couldn't give Lev more than a couple of hours of rest. It was almost twenty miles to the Wolf's Mouth. If Elbek was already moving, he would be there by late afternoon tomorrow.

He wondered how Sam and Cas were doing, down in the desert. Or if they were already on their way back, hopefully with a buttload of information about what the hell was going on, and how they could they stop it. The one thing everyone had seemed to agree about was that there could be no mortal born from the union of an angel and a demon, but the prophecy itself had been pretty specific about it. Angels didn't have reproductive organs, unless they fell, he thought. A fallen angel and a demon? Or just a fallen angel and a demon possessing a person? Did the qualities of a demon become entwined enough with those they possessed to pass along?

They must, he realised, remembering Jesse Turner. Half-breed, Cas had called him, and more powerful than angels. Did that mean that an angel's half-breed offspring would also be more powerful than the angels themselves?

He shook his head tiredly. Theoretical biology hadn't interested him in school, the practical applications had been a different matter, but they weren't much help to finding answers to the questions he had. Theological biology was of even less interest.

He looked up at the sky, seeing the position of the stars had altered slightly. _And that's all the time we have, folks_. He got up, and walked to the horses, tightening the girths and taking off the hobbles, then walked into the cave.

Lev was asleep, the half-eaten bread still loosely held in one hand. Dean crouched beside him, and shook him lightly. The hunter's eyes opened slowly. There was a little more colour in his face, Dean thought, looking at him critically. _Only another couple of days of riding, my friend, and you can rest. We both can_.

He slid his arm around the hunter's shoulders and Lev sat up, rolling to one hip as Dean lifted him to his feet.

"We've got to keep going. The demons are camped a couple of ridges back, but that might be just for show."

Lev nodded and limped alongside Dean as they came out of the cave to the horses.

"You gonna stay in the saddle?" Dean looked up at him, when he was more or less settled.

"Yes, the pain is better, not feeling so dizzy now." Lev picked up the reins as Dean mounted.

"We can take it easy for a while, anyway."

They rode back up to the road, turning south, Lev's horse leading the way, Dean following behind him, his attention divided between the road ahead and the road behind.

* * *

Castiel and Ruane stood within the treeline on edge of the long slope, the horses standing quietly behind them, looking down at the town.

What remained of the town, Castiel amended. The small valley had been productive and had been flourishing, judging by the number of houses and buildings down there. Now there was nothing left but burned out remains, the very stones blackened and brittle with the ferocity of the fires that had been set. The fields and orchards and vineyards that had surrounded the small town were grey and filled with ash, swirling slightly as a breeze came down the mountain and stirred it.

And so.

Kokabiel was being thorough.

"Could anyone have survived?" Ruane whispered beside him. He could hear despair in her voice, an edge of desperation, a longing to hear that it wasn't as bad as it looked.

"No." He looked at her. "No, this army will leave no survivors. They are hunting for someone who is to be killed," he looked back down at the valley, "and they will kill everyone to ensure that death."

She closed her eyes, feeling her tears filling her throat. This, then, was the way it was. The way it would be. As a child, listening to winter tales, she had accepted evil, never knowing what it looked like, not really even being able to imagine it. But here it was, and she realised that it was destruction, wanton and chaotic. Sam had told her that Lucifer wanted to destroy humankind. Wipe them from the face of the earth. If they didn't stop it, then everywhere would look like this.

"We need to go west, through the wild forest on the high slopes." Castiel turned his head.

Ruane lifted her head and nodded. Between the boreal woods and the higher alpine forests, no one went. The way was dangerous and rough, but better than facing an army of demons.

They mounted and rode down through the woods, skirting the open ground and crossing the road that had led to the town quickly. Ahead of them, visible as they rode up the valley's end and over the low saddle dividing the peaks, they could see the wild forest, stretching out northward, hundreds of miles of thick trees, tangled undergrowth, riddled with faint trails that led nowhere. Ruane shivered looking at it. Her father had gone through this forest when he'd been young, and looking for adventure. His tales had always frightened her, but she'd begged to hear them again and again anyway.

The leaves were falling, here and there. Looking up at the branches it was hard to see that any were missing, but the ground was covered in their drifts and they crackled and rustled and sighed as the horses strode through them.

They followed game trails, staying away from the wider tracks and roads, climbing up and down along the varying slopes, dismounting to find ways across streams and creeks that cut down the side of the mountain, tangled with wild blackberry and raspberry, with branches and fallen trees and thick coppice of alder and yew. They saw bear, and in the night heard the wolf music from higher up the mountains. Once, late in the night, she heard a deep rumbling roar, far off to the north.

They had been riding through the forest for almost a week, when Ruane saw the smoke rising ahead, through a gap in the trees as they crested high ground. The forest was burning, from halfway down the mountainside to the foothills that followed the coastline of the sea, the flames leapt from tree top to tree top, and smoke rose black and grey and white into the air.

"Look." Castiel said softly, pointing to an area that had already been burned out. Ruane stared at the movement through the empty smoking ground, horses and men moving upward toward the living forest. She heard a deep roar and started, recognising it as the same as the one she'd heard in the night.

"What is that?"

Castiel shook his head. "I don't know. We need to get higher, though."

He looked up the steep slope, then across the next valley. A difference in the colours of the foliage showed a narrow trail. "There, we'll follow that and get up to the snowline."

They mounted and hurried down the trail, finding the new path as they crossed the stream that ran fast down the steep valley, and dismounting to lead the horses over the rocky ground. They could smell the smoke now, as the wind blew it toward them, acrid and pungent.

"If the wind gets any stronger, it will bring the fire this way. We need to hurry, Ruane."

She nodded, panting slightly as she struggled up over the rocks, trying to find the easiest way for the horses following.

The deep shudder of the ground under their feet was a shock and they stopped, staring at each other, as another followed it. The horses threw their heads up, nostrils flaring as the shudders continued, the trees and shrubs trembling around them, each small temblor seeming to gain strength, as if the tremors were approaching them.

Castiel frowned, staring at the ground. "That's not an earthquake."

Ruane turned to him, and froze. From the north, along the slope, they could hear cracking and splintering, rustling and thuds and crashes, something moving through the trees, something big enough to knock them down, and trample them underfoot.

* * *

_Come on_, Dean lay on his stomach, hands shading his eyes as he looked east along the road. The Scythians were still following them, had closed the gap in the night. The sun hadn't yet risen, the sky grey to his right, still a deep indigo to the west. They'd ridden through the night, taking it easy on the horses, mostly walking, stopping every hour or so to let them graze.

Ten more miles, he thought, rolling over and getting to his feet. The soldiers were two or three miles behind them, tracking them, he thought. He didn't think they'd been seen yet.

He ran back up the road to the horses, taking the reins from Lev and mounting, wheeling his horse around on the track. "They're about two miles behind. We need to go faster, Lev."

Lev looked at him and nodded. He was sweating again, and Dean could see the blood had started to soak through the dressing again, as the cloth of the bandage had loosened and released some of the pressure. _Goddammit_, he thought, _just a little break, every once in a while, is that too much to ask?_

Lev turned his horse and started to canter along the road, Dean following. He'd never ridden an endurance race, but he knew what was needed. They could keep this speed up for a mile or so, then they'd have to walk again, let the horses recover their wind, eat a little and then push harder again. The Impala drifted into his mind and he grimaced, pushing the thought of her away. Wouldn't make this road, anyway.

He glanced behind two hours later and saw them cresting the ridge line behind them. _No more than a mile now_, he thought, wiping the sweat from his hair, and pushing his horse on again. The twin peaks of the pass were visible ahead, rising higher than those they still had to cross to get there. _Come on, come on_, his thoughts beat in time with the hoofbeats on the road. Ahead of him, Lev swayed in the saddle, and he edged closer to him.

They dropped back to a trot as the road descended again, the sunshine hot in the still valley, startling a fox and her cubs as they clattered past. Dean could feel his horse slowing, the efforts of the last two days with little food or rest taking its toll. He rubbed his hand along her neck, under the thick, springy mane, reassuringly. _Not long now, not far to go_.

He wasn't sure if that was the truth. He hoped it was.

Lev was definitely swaying from side to side now, and Dean swore softly, riding up beside him. The hunter was almost unconscious, the reins loose and lying on his horse's neck, the dressing on his leg now bright red. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the Scythian horses trotting down the long descent behind them. _God no, not this freaking close_. He looked at Lev, and pulled the horses up, dragging the hunter from the gelding onto his mare, shifting backwards against the cantle and wrapping his left arm around the hunter's ribs, hoping that his grip would hold. He pushed the mare forward, from a jog into a canter, then harder as he heard the thunder of hooves behind them.

The mare lengthened her stride, stretching out her neck, as they galloped up the agonisingly long slope, Lev's horse galloping beside her, reins and stirrups flapping wildly, ears pressed back. Dean looked over Lev's shoulder as they cleared the crest. A mile, at most, to the tunnel. He drove his heels into the mare's sides, his eyes tracking over the top of the tunnel as she thundered down the slope. On the top, against the blue sky, he could see a figure, waving wildly. _Elbek_, he hoped. He leaned forward, and shouted to the horses, feeling them reach deep for that last bit of energy and accelerate a little more.

The hoofbeats behind him receded a bit, but he couldn't look around. As they tore up the slope to the tunnel he could hear faint shouting somewhere ahead or above. He kept his eyes on the dark entrance to the tunnel, counting down the distance in his head, hoping that there would be reinforcements at the other end.

They shot into the dimness, the details lost in their speed and against the brightness of the far end. Dean was vaguely aware that they were almost halfway through, and that he could hear hoofbeats behind him when the first explosive went off.

The noise in the high, narrow tunnel was unbelievable. He felt the mare leap forward, saw Lev's gelding miss a stride and almost fall, then recover and accelerate past them. He couldn't hear anything, could only see the bright opening ahead of him, getting larger as they got closer. Then the second bomb went off, the sound more muffled this time, but the effects worse, as the rock above creaked and groaned, shedding dust and stalactites from the concussive wave through the rock. He veered to one side as a dozen stone spears dropped to the ground in front of him, reining the mare back the other way as a couple more shook and trembled and dropped on the other side.

In the quiet of his mind, he counted, and each casing blew behind them, but the timing was getting closer. The roiling cloud of dust passed him, and visibility went to zero, breathing was impossible, he felt his mare falter and then pick her stride again, as she desperately tried to reach clean air.

* * *

Elbek, Kiya and Geny stood to one side of the tunnel, holding their horses and watched the loose horse rocket out of the tunnel's end as the last bomb detonated and the dust cloud rolled out, filling the road and spreading out to either side. Elbek stared at the mouth of the tunnel disbelievingly, waiting, trying to see through the dust.

Dimly through the white cloud he saw a horse jump the rocks at the mouth of the tunnel, turning away from the road, heading toward them, horse and riders coated from end to end with thick white dust.

"Whoa, whoa there, girl." He stepped into her path as she dropped to a trot and then a walk, shaking her head and snorting.

"Dean?" Kiya walked to the other side of the mare, reaching up as Geny came up behind her, the two of them pulling Dean from the saddle first, then Lev.

"Get water, Elbek, Geny. And saplings, we'll need to make a litter for Lev."

Dean opened his eyes slowly, squinting as the dust that coated them made them water. "We make it?"


	29. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

* * *

Dripping water. Cold stone. Darkness. The sweetish sour odour of decay, distant but underlying it all.

Sam opened his eyes and tried to lift his head.

Pain. A throbbing bulge behind one eye. A sharper ache in his neck.

He lifted his hand and touched the skin there, feeling the ragged edges, the soft warm liquid.

There wasn't a sound, no footfall or slur of robe over stone, but he felt it come into the room. He opened his eyes again, slightly, and started back when the face filled his vision, inches from him.

The skull was long, the skin covering it pale and shining, smooth as polished stone, without a line or hair or blemish. The eyes, deepset in the sockets, were dark, filmed thinly by a reddish tint over the whites. The long nose was hooked, the mouth beneath thin-lipped and a vivid red, the lips shining with blood.

"The pain will go."

The voice was faint, harsh, the words running into each other, thick and liquid, despite Castiel's translation spell. The gust of breath from the mouth blew over him, and his throat closed, his chest hitching as he gagged at the fetid reek filling his nostrils and mouth.

"You don't taste as bad as the others, but still not human, not quite human." The face drew back, and he felt cool, thin fingers skate over his wrist and hand.

"Demon blood." Sam looked up cautiously, waiting for pain to explode in his head again. It didn't, and he opened his eyes a little more.

"Ah."

He didn't see the creature move, but it was on the other side of him now.

"And why are the demons loosed from Tuonela?"

Sam frowned at the word, unsure of its meaning. "A mage is trying to raise the dead, to bring an evil creature to walk on the earth."

"Evil creature? An evil creature … like me … perhaps?" The vampyre moved again, and Sam felt its breath against his cheek.

"More evil than you."

"More evil than me?" It considered the words carefully, drawing away from him again. "I am very evil. I take life."

"This creature wants to take all life. All humans. All creatures."

"So?" The inflexion on the word was unusual.

Sam lay still, feeling his blood pooling in the hollow between his collarbone and the muscles of his shoulder. Dean would be pissed, if he found out that after all they'd been through, everything they'd done, and fought and survived, he was killed by a plain old vampire. But, the thought snuck in slyly, Lucifer wouldn't have his vessel if he bought it here, hidden in this lair, dead and rotting.

"And what do you know of this, mortal?"

"The soldiers, the demons that you took me from, they were taking me to be … for the ritual to raise the evil creature." He tried to see where the vampyre was, but the light seemed to go around it, he could see bits … a winged brow and the gleam of skin over the bone of the temple, a long fold in the dark robes, one long curving fingernail, thickened and ridged like a claw, but not all of it, not at the same time.

"A ritual." Again, the vampyre seemed to savour the words. Sam wondered how old it was, how long it had lived alone here in the dark, taking only those who passed through the forest.

"And if I drain you, leave you as an empty husk, what then?" The voice was next to his ear, soft as a whisper of silk across skin.

"Then the creature will not be able to be born, and life will go on," he said quietly, not knowing if that were true.

"You look for death's embrace, mortal?" The vampyre's face was over him again, the red-rimmed eyes looking into his own, the noxious breath on his lips. "To take away pain? To take away choice?"

Sam closed his eyes, thinking of a woman, lying dead in a forest, next to a dark-skinned hunter and an angel. He'd loved Jess so much he'd thought he'd never heal from her loss. Ruane had been a surprise to him. Completely different, yet there were similarities between the two women … strength, and compassion, and a way of looking past the surface to what lay beneath. He couldn't face losing his second chance, couldn't imagine finding anyone else again who saw past what had been done to him, what he'd done to himself, and love him in spite of it all, because of it all.

"Yes." It was barely a breath, but he knew that the vampyre had heard it. He felt the cold breath against the side of his neck, felt the prick of the long nails driving into his shoulder, felt the excruciating pain of the teeth sinking into him.

* * *

Castiel stared up in surprise. It had been a long time since he'd seen any of the Titans walking on Earth. They were not gods, of course. Merely people of a slightly different genetic makeup. Hesiod had glimpsed them, three hundred years ago, crossing the Mediterranean Sea to Africa, and had written about them then. He'd thought they'd migrated south and then died out.

The giant looked down at them, blonde brows beetled in anger. He let out a deafening roar of rage, and bent down to sweep them aside. Castiel and Ruane dragged the horses from the road as the hand swept past, generating a localised wind that bent the saplings by the sides of the trail almost to the ground.

"Demonspawn!" The giant's voice boomed at them, and the angel looked around in frustration, knowing the giant would bring the Scythians down on them if he couldn't get him to shut up.

He tied the horses and ran out into the road, as the giant leaned over suddenly, huge hands gripping Ruane and lifting her out of the trees. She struggled against the impossible grip, the fingers wrapped around her hips and waist felt like stone, each one the size of a sapling.

"You're a woman."

She looked up into the massive face, five times larger than her own, and nodded.

"Demons don't possess women."

Ruane wondered distractedly if that were true, or if the giant had only seen the possessed Scythians and had no other experience to go on. She felt her stomach rise as she was lifted abruptly higher and closer to the giant's face, his eyes almost crossed as he looked at something on her chest.

"Where did you get that?" The eyes lifted to hers again, and she looked down, at the round pin that held her cloak.

"My father gave it to me."

The blonde brows drew together again. "Your father?"

She nodded, clamping her teeth together as she was lowered fast to the ground.

"Vasiliĭ Chernyĭ is your father?"

She nodded again, her fingers rising unconsciously to touch the pin. She was astonished to see the giant's wide mouth curve and lift.

"I met your father, here in these woods, a long time ago. I gave him that pin."

"You're Astraeus?" Ruane looked up at him, remembering the giant from her father's tales. "I thought … it was a tale for a child, I thought he made that up."

The corners of the giant's mouth quirked higher. "No."

He looked behind him, at the burning forest. "Why are you here? This is dangerous land now."

"We're trying to get to our village." She pointed north and east. "The demon army has overrun the road through the mountains, we thought it would be safer this way."

"You thought wrong, then." Astraeus looked north. "They have spread like a plague all along the western forests, driving everything out before them. They are looking for a man, they say."

Castiel nodded. "Yes. We heard that as well."

"How do you think you are going to get past them?"

"Over the peaks. They have many men enslaved but even with so many they cannot watch every trail, guard every path through the mountains."

Astraeus crouched down, and looked at them. "No, that is true. And the main force of the army is still on the eastern flank of the mountains."

"Why were you heading south?"

"I wasn't 'heading' anywhere deliberately. I was trying to get away from the fire."

Castiel looked up the trail they'd been heading for. "We are taking that trail, over the rock."

Astraeus turned to look at the trail. "On the narrow side for me." He looked at the stream. "I will follow the stream, and meet you beyond the treeline."

"It would be better to leave as little indication of where we've gone as possible." Castiel looked back to the stream, the soft ground on both sides would give the giant's path away.

"True. But very few people recognise the imprint of my feet as tracks." The giant looked more closely at the angel. "Do I know you? You seem very familiar to me."

"I knew your mother, briefly," Castiel said shortly, gesturing to the trail. "We don't have much time, the path you left will not be difficult to follow."

Astraeus laughed softly. Behind him, the trees had been smashed down or pushed over, the undergrowth trampled deep into the earth and rock. It looked as if a giant had run through the forest.

"Your animals will slow us down." Astraeus looked down his nose at the horses.

"Perhaps, but we will need their speed once we're past the army." Castiel looked away, thinking of Dean's impatience, of the pressure he would be feeling to go looking for Sam as soon as possible. He hoped Valenis would be able to hold him.

The giant shrugged, standing. Ruane looked up. When he'd held her, she'd thought it was a long way to the ground, but now she could see that he was only half the height of the big trees, barely a third of the oldest ones. That was bearable, she thought, her mind already adjusting from disbelief to acceptance. That was thinkable.

* * *

Dean looked up as he rode down the track toward the village walls, seeing the torches lit on the palisade, the big fires on either side of the gates. He'd been gone for a little over a week but it had felt like a month. Eating cooked food again, sleeping in a bed again, he tipped his head back and stretched out the muscles of his neck and back, careful with his left side, feeling the responsibilities he'd held for the past eight days sliding off his shoulders.

Lev had remained with Kiya and Elbek in Black River. He would be moved when he had recovered enough to travel. The pass had been more than closed, he thought with a deep contentment, it had been sealed. The limestone bridge had collapsed completely, filling the gap between the peaks from end to end, effectively stopping any possibility of the army being able to come across in force. They could come without their horses, but he didn't think they would. They would go around, try and find some other way to get to the villages.

He raised his hand as he got close enough to the guards to be recognised, watching with approval the line of arrows aimed at him, and heard the bars being slid back from the brackets inside the gates. It was good to be home.

The gate opened, and he rode through, pulling up in surprise as he saw Vasiliĭ, closely followed by Alis, hurrying down the half-paved path from the keep, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he saw the expression on the leader's face.

"What's wrong?" He glanced at Alis, as she took the reins of his horse.

"Come." Vasiliĭ looked up at him, and Dean slid from the horse, Alis leading it toward the barn as soon as he was on the ground. He watched her go, her rapid retreat increasing the prickle at the back of his neck, then turned back to the other man.

"What?"

"Valenis has heard from Penemue." Vasiliĭ turned away, striding up the path, forcing Dean to follow him.

"And? Did he say if they got the information?" He lengthened his stride to catch up to the leader, who despite his shorter stature and wider frame, moved light and fast when he chose.

"Yes, but there were … complications."

"Vasiliĭ." Dean stopped as they reached the doors. "Tell me."

"Inside, Dean. You need to eat, and you might as well do that while you listen, yes?"

He turned away, going into the hall and Dean followed him, feeling the flutter in his stomach. Whatever the news was, it wasn't good. The leader of Deep Ice had no talent for prevarication and was uncomfortable with whatever it was he had to tell him. He pushed away his mind's speculations and found a place next to Vasiliĭ at the table. His misgivings grew as he saw Valenis walking toward them determinedly. Double-barrelled assault, he thought, his appetite vanishing at the expressions on their faces.

"Come on, tell me." He looked from Vasiliĭ to Valenis as she down opposite him.

"Penemue contacted me in the water, Dean. Sam was captured in the desert, as they were making their way back from the Watchers. Castiel and Penemue think it was Samyaza. He was moved very quickly through the desert and mountains, and the Watcher took him by boat across the Black Sea."

Dean felt the information rolling over him, his mind trying to sort out the implications, the ominous overtones, both of what Valenis was saying, and the seriousness of her expression, while a part of him simply reeled at the news.

"Why? Why would they take Sam?" He looked at her, then at Vasiliĭ.

"Castiel said that the prophecy, a mortal born of angel and demon, referred to Sam. Your lineage, your ancestors, were Watchers. Sam being given the demon blood made him a part demon, possibly. Penemue told me that Sam couldn't cross the Watcher's door, because of the demon trap they have there." She stumbled a little over the explanation, not really understanding all of it herself, coming secondhand through the Watcher via the water which only transmitted images, not words. She could see he was struggling to take it in. "Castiel says that Sam is descended from angels, and has demon blood also."

Dean looked away, his eyes dark and unfocussed as he tried to assimilate the information. They were from a line of angels? How was that possible? Sam was, again, Lucifer's vessel? What did that make him? Was Michael going to appear and insist that they pick up where they left off in the twenty-first century? He shook his head.

"This is … Valenis, are you sure that's what he said?" He looked at her, and she felt her heart contract at the plea far back in his eyes.

"Yes." She moistened her lips, trying to think of words that would help make it clearer to him, easier to bear. "When the Watchers fell, they had families, with human woman. The children of those unions were the nephilim, considered cursed by some, blessed by others, Penemue said. They had children of their own, and so the lines were formed. Castiel said that only those of the lines of the Watchers could be angelic vessels. He told me that you and Sam had two lines of angels in your lineage. From your mother's side, Azazel, the corrupt. And from your father's side, Araquiel."

He started at the name of the yellow-eyed demon, his face hardening as he looked away.

"If we're both descended from them, why is it always Sam who Lucifer wants? Why not me?" He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the familiar frustration and anger rising inside of him. Heaven and Hell, fucking with his life, even in a time when no one even believed in them.

"I do not know, Dean. When Castiel returns, he may have the answer that you seek."

He looked down at the table. "When he returns?"

"He is on his way back now. Ruane is with him," Vasiliĭ said very quietly.

Dean frowned. "What about Rascha? Where's he?"

"He was killed, by Scythians, close to Penemue's home."

He looked at her and felt a chill invading him, his expression suddenly bleak and cold. _Enough. It was enough_. Too many people had died because of him and Sam, he didn't know how to stop it, he didn't know if the curse that followed them was responsible, but he'd had enough of it all.

"The northern pass is closed." He looked at Vasiliĭ. "The harvest is in, the villages have the traps and defences and the blood metal."

Valenis stared at him. "You cannot leave here until Castiel returns, Dean."

He didn't look at her, his attention fixed on Vasiliĭ's face. "I'm sorry, but I can't stay for this, I can't help you with what's coming. I have to find Sam, I have to find my brother, and we –" his voice faltered as a storm of emotion rose up in him, "– we have to stop this."

He felt a hand curve around his arm, and turned. Alis sat beside him, her eyes focussed intently on his.

"Can I talk to you?"

He looked down at her hand, about to shake it off and she curled her fingers more tightly, the increase in pressure a tacit warning. Raising his gaze to meet hers, he saw that unspoken warning repeated in her face, the seriousness of her expression enough to quell the tempest building inside of him, to cut through thought and emotion. "Yeah. Sure."

She nodded and got to her feet and he followed her out of the hall, not looking back at Valenis or Vasiliĭ as he left.

"What?"

"Listen to me, just for a moment, with your whole attention," she said, her voice low and sharp with urgency as she looked up at him. "They will lock you up, to keep you here." He frowned as she glanced back toward the hall. "You know how my mother feels about Castiel, his is the ultimate authority in her eyes, because he is an angel. She will not let you go, because he has told her not to."

Staring down at her, he tensed at her words, the muscle in his jaw jumping, a flush of anger heating him. "You think they can take me, Alis? I'm not that easy."

Alis closed her eyes at his reaction. "They will take you one way or the other, if you fight."

He was silent for a moment, knowing she was right, knowing he would not fight, not Vasiliĭ, not Valenis, not the warriors and hunters here who were his friends. The scenario played out too vividly in his mind, what a fight like that would cost. "The alternative being?"

"Penemue said that Castiel and Ruane left ten days ago. They will not be able to come up the road through the mountains, they will have to find safer routes," she told him, her eyes opening and pleading with him. "They should be back in less than a week, even going down by the sea. Tell my mother that you will stay for a week, after that it would seem likely that they have been captured or killed."

"Sam will be hundreds of miles further away if I stay here for a week." He turned away.

"Yes. Maybe," Alis admitted. "But if you are locked up here, unable to do anything, is that any improvement?"

"It's almost October, if I wait around, then I'll have to deal with the snow as well as everything else."

"No matter if you left tonight, you will still have to face the winter, Dean. Penemue told my mother that Samyaza was taking Sam far to the north, into the sea of ice that lies at the edge of the world."

He stared at her, the words dropping into him like stones. The edge of the world. How the fuck was he supposed to find Sam? He shook his head impatiently, thrusting the doubt away. He'd find him, somehow. But he had to go, now.

"Goddamn it, Alis, I can't sit here for a week doing nothing. I can't." He looked past her to the hall that led down to the kitchen. "Can I go now? Before any guards are posted?"

She followed his gaze and shook her head. "The guards already know. Please, think about this. You will leave without preparation? Without food or weapons or horses?"

She watched the anger and frustration fill his face, saw his hands close into fists, the tendons standing out in his arms, waiting patiently beside him for the emotion to run its course, for him to let himself accept that his options had run out.

Leaning against the cool stone wall, Alis felt relief seep through her as she saw his fists finally loosen, his fingers relax and uncurl again. She looked up at him as he closed his eyes and exhaled.

"Why'd you tell me this?" he asked.

"Because I didn't want to see you locked up, and I wasn't sure you'd see reason if you felt you were trapped between my mother and Vasiliĭ."

He opened his eyes, looking down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You thought I'd start a fight in the middle of the hall?"

"No." She looked away, lifting a shoulder in a slight shrug. "Maybe. It will be better if you take the time of waiting and use it efficiently, effectively, to plan where you will go, how you can do it."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, it would."

"So, you will be calm?"

"Can't promise that, but I'll listen." He leaned back against the wall. "Will Vasiliĭ let anyone come with me?"

"That is not up to Vasiliĭ. I will come with you." She looked at him. "You need a warrior and a healer. I am both."

"This is likely to be a one-way trip." He looked at the flagged stone floor, uncertain if he wanted her to come or not, the constriction in his chest at her words warring with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

She shrugged. "Every hunt could be that too. And I am more careful now."

He looked up at her, catching something in her tone. "Are you?"

She looked up at him, her eyes lit with a sudden laughter. "You taught me that lesson well."

He dragged in a deep breath. "Yeah, well I won't be saving you again, don't forget that."

She nodded, the laughter vanishing. "You are ready?"

"Yeah, let's do it."

They walked back into the hall, Alis glancing expressionlessly at her mother and away again. Dean sat down, and looked at Valenis.

"Better tell me everything you know."

"You will stay until Castiel returns?" She flicked a look at her daughter again.

"I'll stay for a week, Valenis." He looked at her steadily. "If he hasn't returned by then, I don't think he'll be back at all."

Valenis looked at Vasiliĭ. The leader spread his hands out, his shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug. "I agree."

* * *

Three days later, most of the preparations that could be made were underway. The waiting was bearable, Dean had discovered, only when he was busy, his hands and mind fully engaged in getting ready. He found Alis in the barn, sorting through the apples that had been picked that day. Valenis had said nothing to her daughter's assertion that she would accompany the outlander on his search. He still wasn't sure it was such a great idea to take her along, but he needed someone who knew the country, who could fight and her skills as a healer would probably be needed, sooner or later.

She looked up as he walked over to her.

"Did Guin say she would have the winter bedrolls ready in time?"

"Yeah, she's made three, one for Cas." He looked down at the barrels of apples around them. "She has more faith in him than I do."

Alis smiled, looking down at the apples and selecting another, placing it in the rough-woven sack by her side. "She loves him. She won't believe he's dead until she can see his body."

"I guess." He glanced at her and away again. "Vasiliĭ thinks we should take another warrior."

"The more swords we have, the better off we are." She turned over the apple in her hands, looking for softness, for blemishes. She'd been sorting food that would keep for the long journey for the past two days now. "On the other hand, the more of us there are, the easier we'll be to find."

"Yeah." He looked at her. "Anyone you think would be more of an asset than a liability?"

"Lyre is a good hunter, but another man would probably help more."

"Help in what way?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Men are stronger, can carry more, hit harder, just stronger. Sometimes you need strength more than speed."

"So you think we should ask someone else along?"

She looked at him, the surprise in her face genuine. "You are the leader, Dean. If you think we need someone else, then pick someone else. It isn't my place to question what you think we need."

"I'm asking for input, uh, for your opinion, here," he said, turning away from her and leaning against the rail of one of the barn's animal pens.

She thought of the country they would be going through. She'd spent the previous evening asking her mother about it as well. The population was very thin in the northern lands. And like it or not, they would be travelling in the winter, which would make it difficult to hunt, to find food. She thought they would have to leave the horses or turn them loose at some point, Valenis had talked of bog and marsh, little or no fodder for animals, vast taiga forests suited to reindeer but not horses, and to the west, tundra, plains of frozen ground and relentless wind.

"You and Castiel must go, there is no choice. But no, I do not think we need anyone else, and I cannot think of anyone who has a good reason to accompany us. This will not be an adventure."

"No." She was right about him and Cas, he thought. There was no choice for either of them, always assuming that the angel made it back in time. He wondered what her reasons for going were.

"You care very much for Sam." It wasn't really a question, but he felt her curiosity.

"Yeah. He's a pain in the ass, sometimes, but he's my little brother, so I have to look out for him." He saw her brow rise at the descriptive word and the corner of his mouth lifted in acknowledgement. "Yeah, I know but he's four years younger than me, and we … we had a kind of strange childhood … I pretty much raised him, so I'll always see him that way." He shrugged self-consciously, uncomfortable with the admission, as if it were a weakness. He thought of how it had driven him, how vulnerable it had made both of them, and realised it was.

"You have to protect him? Keep him from harm?"

"Yeah." He sighed, those feelings were contradictory too. "It's what I do."

"You feel that way about the village too?"

"Not as strongly, maybe." He'd thought it had been the same, but when the choice came down to the wire, he'd chosen as he always had. "But yeah, I wanted to keep everyone safe here."

"You've done more than that," she said softly. "You have given them all that they need to protect themselves."

"I hope so." He knew he was going to spend a lot of time worrying about the people here, even while he was looking for his brother.

"And for you? What do you have for you?"

"What do you mean?" He looked down uneasily, shifting his position against the rail.

"You look out for everyone else, Dean. What about you? Who protects you? Who takes care of you? Do you want to be the protector and that is all?"

His smile was uncomfortable and it didn't quite reach his eyes as he shrugged, trying to hide the shock that was rippling through him, at her questions and his lack of answers for them.

"That's what I do," he said finally, his gaze cutting to one side. "It's who I am."


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

* * *

The roll of thunder was continuous, the deep sound vibrating in their teeth and shaking their bones, trembling in the rock under their feet. Castiel looked up, seeing the cloud getting thicker and thicker, and not far from them now, the brilliant blue-white jagged bolts of lightning striking the rock of the higher peaks.

"We should move under the cover of the storm." He looked at Astraeus and Ruane, the giant and woman standing behind him. "They are close behind us, we could lose them if they take shelter."

"And if they do not?" Astraeus looked back down the long valley. "If they were just men, Castiel, I might agree with you. But demons will not fear this storm."

"Castiel is right. We cannot sit here and wait for them to come upon us." Ruane looked up at the mountains they had to cross. "Better to die up there, free, than be puppets for the demons, or playthings."

The giant sighed. "What are we waiting for then?"

He stood, bending over slightly against the push of the fierce winds bulleting down the slopes, looking over his shoulder down at them. "Stay behind me, you might get some shelter that way."

Castiel and Ruane mounted their horses, and followed at his heels. Each of the giant's strides was over twenty feet, and they pushed the horses into a trot to keep up. The wind was lessened behind him, slightly, but the sheeting rain, bouncing off the rock and thin grass, and blown over them as spindrift, couldn't be avoided. The horses trotted with their heads down, tails tucked tightly against their rumps, trained to endure whatever came their way, but plainly thinking little of it.

As they came to the peak, they dismounted. From here there was no choice but to walk, finding the narrow goat trails and leading the horses over them. Castiel looked back, seeing amorphous shapes moving down the valley behind them, indistinct but unmistakable through the silver curtains of rain and the cloud that was slowly thickening around them.

The cloud would help, he thought, hide them as their tracks were washed away by the fury of the storm. Once they reached the high range, that separated this series of valleys from those of the villages, they would be crossing rock and leaving no trail at all.

He wasn't sure how they were being tracked. Kokabiel had not come in a dream to either himself or Ruane, or even to the giant. They had doubled back after crossing the first of the high ridges from the western side, moving only over rock and through the frigid mountain streams for a day before turning and heading north again. Still, the unit of Scythians had followed them. He was subliminally aware of them, their position and their speed, at all times, and he'd started to worry in earnest when he'd realised that the horsemen were gaining on them despite their hurry, despite their precautions.

Lightning crashed into the snow and ice nearby, filling the air with the bitter scent of ozone, and blinding them all for several moments. He stood on the edge of the glacier, eyes filled with white light from the flash, and a spark of energy from the bolt trickled through him, coruscating beyond the nervous system of his vessel, touching something else inside of him. He felt that touch as a revelation. It came to him that the demons could probably see him.

He'd thought he was mortal, flesh and blood, but perhaps somewhere inside this vessel he was still an angel, and that light of Heaven still shone enough for demonkind to be able to discern his movements. The longer he stood there, thinking of it, the more certain he became that it was him they were seeing, tracking.

He turned to Ruane and Astraeus sharply. "Astraeus, you must ensure that Ruane reaches the valley of her people."

Ruane frowned at him. "And you, Castiel, you must be with me."

"No. I think –" He looked down the broken slope they'd just traversed and back to her. "I think they can see me, can track me because of what I am."

"But you said you were mortal now." She stared at him in confusion. "You have no powers, you have no contact with your own kind."

"I know, I feel mortal but I did not fall, Ruane, nor was I thrown down." He shook his head. "I must still be as I was, even if only in some small part." He looked at the giant. "I will cross the glacier here, moving slightly south of east to find a crossing. I will lead them away from you."

Astraeus nodded slowly. "And if it is not you, Castiel, that they track and follow?"

"Then I will have made the mistake of a lifetime, Astraeus, and it will be on you to ensure Ruane's safe return to her father."

The giant looked away. "That I must do in any case, angel."

Ruane bit her lip indecisively. "Castiel, if they follow you, you will be alone, helpless."

The angel smiled suddenly. "How little you think of me, Ruane, after all our travels. Even as I am, I am not helpless, and if they can see me, I will think of something to make use of that."

"Go. Over this peak and down the valley, then turn to the east." He gestured ahead, handing Ruane the rope of his pack horse. "I will see you soon."

He turned away from them and led his grey onto the glacier.

Astraeus shrugged and stood, turning to the north and finding the trail over the rock. Behind him, Ruane looked at Castiel as he drew further away, man and grey horse disappearing into the thick cloud in moments. She turned and followed the giant.

* * *

Castiel walked fast over the ice and snow, watching his footing, mindful of the animal he was leading, the icy rain turning to tiny, hard pellets of snow as he passed the middle of the frozen field of ice. He could feel the incline rising, and he hurried on toward the serrated peaks.

The wind, funnelled down the glacier by the surrounding peaks, howled incessantly at him, driving the fine snow against him, the dry granules building up on his cloak, in his hair and over his shoulders. He stopped twice to shake the snow from his body, the second time pulling the heavy cloth bedroll from his saddle and throwing it over the horse, to provide some protection for the animal against the frigid cold. The finely built Arabian horses had begun to grow in some length of coat, but it would never be as thick and layered in oil as the coats of the steppes horses.

He reached the grey rock and found a narrow path leading up and around the ridge, slipping slightly as he scrambled along it, bending against the force of the blizzard. By nightfall this path would be glazed in ice, and he would have to wait until the temperature rose before he could keep going. He thought the demons were still forcing their way up the valley, but couldn't be sure. Beyond the ridge, he could descend down to the alpine forest again, gain shelter in the trees and possibly a time for rest. He thought he would know by then if it was him that the demons were tracking.

By morning, possibly even now, the tracks of Ruane and the giant and the horses would have been washed clean by the rain or filled with snow, either way they should be safe enough, away from him.

The thought that he was not entirely mortal had brought a frisson of excitement to him, relieving his fears of facing the mage and Lucifer as purely a man, powerless and futile against them. Of all of them, only he knew the power of the angel that had been cast down. To face him, to destroy him, it would take more than three mortal men, no matter what the prophecy had said.

It made him wonder about the courage of the men he knew. How did they face the foes they had, armed only with their physical strength, their determination and hope? Was there something different in them, something that gave them this thing that men called courage? Many men had it, he knew. But there were possibly as many who didn't. Was it a strength of self? A belief that no matter what the cost, good must win over evil? Did God look down at such men and help them in their time of need? He shook his head. He didn't know.

* * *

Sam felt himself drifting away, his thoughts spiralling inward and down, losing clarity and importance, as his blood was drained, mouthful by mouthful. The pain was distant, barely relevant to him any more. He understood, now, why his brother had sometimes wanted to take this path, to leave him and the world for the quiet darkness of death. It was a relief to lay aside his struggles and his fear, his thoughts and feelings, to rest and to sleep.

He heard the clatter of boots over stone, the hiss of metal from leather, and the strum and whicker of bow strings and arrows, without registering the import of the sounds. The warmth of the mouth against his neck lifted, and the cold air chilled his skin where it had been, but he felt too tired to protest even that. He turned his head away from the noise, squeezing his eyes shut as he heard screams and shouting and the clash of a blade striking stone.

"You're not getting away that easily, Sam." The voice of the Watcher was close by his ear and he twisted from it, feeling long fingers grip his shoulder and pull him back.

"You – I need a dressing for his neck." Samyaza stared down at the shrivelled, sepulchral body of the vampyre at his feet, the head lying several feet away. "Get rid of this, burn it."

The flowing blood was roughly cleaned from his neck and a thick, soft bandage wrapped around the wound. Remotely, a part of him wondered if the vampyre had already taken too much, taken him too close to dying for even the Watcher to be able to bring him back.

"Get wood, hide. Make a litter. We need to get him out of here." The commands were snapped out, and Sam opened his eyes slightly, seeing the Watcher standing above him, covered in filth and blood, his hand resting on the hilt of the long sword at his hip. Behind him, several Scythians were likewise grimy and blood stained, pulling the vampyre's body away and trimming the branches from slender birch saplings. He closed his eyes again.

The Scythians completed the crude stretcher, a thick hide roughly sewn around the straight lengths of birch, and rolled Sam onto it, lifting it and carrying it out of the stone ruins, past a burning pyre and into the forest.

Samyaza walked beside the litter, watching the face of the man who lay there thoughtfully. Cesare had intimated that this man was a powerful warrior, skilled and experienced at hunting the things that roamed the night. It didn't seem likely that he would have been unable to defend himself, at least, against the creature that had taken him.

Then, lack of hope did strange things to men, and even to those who were not just men.

He thought of the man's face as he'd told him of the death of his friends. Death was a part of life, always present, always expected. He'd thought to convince the man that he would not be rescued, that there was no way out for him. But it seemed he'd done more than that.

The woman, perhaps. He had no personal experience of the emotion that men called love. But he'd heard that it was powerful, powerful enough to begin wars, powerful enough to send men to their deaths in despair. He stared at the pale, still form on the stretcher and considered what he could do to ameliorate the situation he'd created. Presumably this man would not just believe him because he said so. He would think on the matter. In the meantime, he needed to think of a way to make up for the time they'd lost and a way to travel while Sam could not ride.

* * *

Alis stared up at the topmost shelf in the storeroom, eyes narrowed. The heart of the wyvern was hard to get, and she knew her mother would be angry with her if she took it. But they would need it, at least some of it. And Valenis would have to admit that her daughter was taking healing seriously if she did discover the loss. She looked around and saw the ladder, leaning up against the other wall, crossing and picking it up, leaning it up against the rows of shelves. She climbed to the top, and stretched out, her fingertips just reaching the soft leather bag, not enough to grasp it. The ladder was as vertical as possible, she would just have to reach harder.

Higher, just a little higher. She lifted her foot up, fingers closing on the shelf below as the ladder wobbled a little, all her weight now well above the point of stability. She stretched out her arm a little further, feeling the fold of leather between the ends of her fingers and slowly drawing it forward, feeling the bag moving finally.

"Hey."

Alis started, her knowledge that she shouldn't have been here flaring into panic and adding to the movement, the ladder wobbling harder, lifting onto one foot. Her fingers yanked the bag forward as she turned, and her feet lost their grip on the rungs. She slid straight down, reaching behind her to catch anything as she felt the ladder teeter forward.

Dean looked up and pushed back against the ladder, straightening it and counterbalancing the lean, his body automatically blocking her and pushing her back against the rungs as she fell toward him.

"Thought you were being more careful?" He looked into her face, level with his, feeling her exhale on his lips.

"I thought you were going to stop saving me?" she countered breathlessly, staring into his eyes.

For a second, they were still, so close that he could see the flecks of darker green against the emerald of her irises; so close that she could see the beat of his pulse against the thin skin over the artery in his neck. For a second

Then Alis turned her head away and looked down, her foot feeling for the rung below, her fingers tightening on the small leather bag. Dean stepped back, letting her go, his hand clenching on the ladder's upright, keeping it against the shelves with unnecessary force.

"Going to tell me what you were risking your life for up there?" he asked as she hit the floor and walked to the small table in the centre of the room. He wanted to break the silence, to be past that moment and everything in it.

She looked over her shoulder. "Just, um, herbs, medicine we might need for the trip."

He watched her leave the room, leaning against the almost upright ladder. "Right."

* * *

The wind hadn't dropped, but the sky was clearing, shreds of blue visible as the dark storm clouds were torn apart and blown to the east. Ruane shivered under the damp fur cloak, looking at the ground in front of her, the rock running with small streams and rivulets of water as the recent snow above them softened and melted.

Astraeus waited for her at the peak, hunched down among the rocks to avoid showing himself against the skyline. She looked at the vast face, hair and beard dripping with water, cheeks red and chapped from the wind and smiled wanly at him.

"Castiel was right. They could see him, somehow."

The giant looked back down the mountain and nodded. "Yes, the demons followed him across the glacier."

She stopped as she reached him, glancing beyond the peak to the long twisting valley she could see below them. "Where will you go, now?"

Astraeus turned his head, following her gaze. "This is your home?"

"Yes." She pointed to the tiny cluster of buildings just visible in one crease of the valley. "That village is very close to mine. I can be home with another days' ride, once we reach the bottom."

"I will go down with you, then." He looked at the range on the other side of the valley, his brows drawing together slightly. "Then I will go east, and south."

"The main army is that way, Astraeus. They will kill you."

"I think not." He looked down at her. "In any case, I must go that way. My brother left us a long time ago, and he came this way. I have been following him for many years now, I will find him, to the east."

"Are there many of you?" Ruane stepped back, watching him rise to his feet, following him as they began to descend the steeper eastern slope.

"Once. We were twelve families, living in the beautiful lands to the west, where the sea was warm and wine-dark and shallow. But we had to leave, after the land was flooded and men became more populous. We walked south and lived there. My family, most of it, is still there. The men there are … deferential, shall we say? … to our size."

Ruane smiled dryly. "You mean they think you are gods?"

He glanced down at her, his mouth curving into a smile. "That's hardly our fault, is it?"

"Why did your brother leave?"

Astraeus sighed deeply. "Why do young men leave their homes and families anywhere? He wanted adventure, wanted to test himself against the world, I think."

They reached the alpine forest by mid-afternoon, and Ruane was able to ride again, finding the narrow game trails down through the thick pine, birch and mountain maple. Astraeus grumbled about the narrowness of the trails, walking mostly sideways to avoid breaking the branches along the path.

Below the forest, the trails began to widen, almost imperceptibly at first, then more obviously and they saw the prints of human and bovine and equine, intermingled with the tracks of mountain goat and bison, deer and bear. They made their camp in a small clearing, hobbling the horses and sitting in the darkness, talking of their lives and of the country that surrounded them.

"So, you do not want adventure?" Ruane drew her cloak closely around her, the dampness had almost gone now, the sunshine through the afternoon and her own body temperature drying it.

"Not really. Seems as if it's more discomfort and danger than excitement."

She laughed softly. "Yes, you are right. I thought that adventure and travelling would be a fine thing, until I did it. Now, I want to get home, to see my father, my friends."

The stab of pain in her chest stopped her from speaking for a long moment. She hadn't spoken of Sam since Castiel had left them. She would have gladly given up seeing her family ever again if she could have been with him, known for sure that he was safe. That feeling, that knowledge, felt disloyal to her home, and her secondary desire, to be home and safe, if only for a short while, felt disloyal to Sam.

She'd prayed to the God he'd told her about, the one who was supposed to have created the world and everything in it, every morning and every night. She didn't know if that entity ever heard her prayers. She prayed to the gods and goddesses that she'd grown up with as well, hoping that somewhere, someone with more power than she would be watching over him, giving him strength.

* * *

Sam looked into the dark pool at the edge of the forest road disinterestedly. Samyaza stood beside him, and he could hear the Watcher's voice, murmuring softly, the words rising and falling in a sing-song rhythm.

He was stronger, the colour had come back to his skin, he could sit up now and could ride for some of the day. Samyaza had ordered the Scythians to hunt and forage for fresh food and had watched him eat.

He looked into the dark water at the Watcher's abrupt gesture, barely recognising the reflection that looked back at him. His hair, his features, they were the same but behind that, it wasn't him, didn't feel like him. The man looking back at him from the smooth, black surface was empty.

"Look into the water, Sam," Samyaza's voice broke into his thoughts. "Look past the reflections and into your heart to see what you most want to know."

He leaned forward, his eyes focussing suddenly as shapes moved in the blackness below the surface. They swirled around, rising slowly, sharpening as they got closer to the top. He didn't notice when his reflection disappeared completely, as a flash from the depths resolved into a round pin, engraved with a design that he knew, and the face above it became clear.

Ruane was riding a fine-boned chestnut horse with a bright white star, down a long forest trail. Behind her, two other horses followed. Above her, tall trees arched, their branches bare and dark, an elaborate tangle against the pale morning sky. She was very thin, bruises darkening one cheek, and a long red cut running from her temple into her hair, but her expression was calm, her jaw lifted slightly in the way that he knew, when she had to complete a task that she thought might be beyond her.

His heart jumped in his chest as he stared at her, memorising the details of her face, the lock of loose dark hair that had escaped from the bindings that held the rest back, and hung against her cheek. She seemed to be riding alone, he thought distractedly, looking at the road ahead of her, not turning to talk to anyone, or listen to anyone. Where was Cas? Why was she alone?

He watched as the trees thinned out around the road, and she rode into the weak, watery sunshine, recognising the standing stone at the junction, the long sweep of the hill to the village at its peak. Black Valley.

The images softened, dissolving and he reached out automatically, trying to touch them, to call them back.

"No! Wait …" He looked up at the Watcher, his brow creasing. "Make it come back."

Samyaza shook his head. "Not yet. You've seen what you needed to, I presume. She's alive and safe, and near her homeland."

"You lied to me," The words were said without inflexion, without colour or heat.

"Yes." Samyaza looked down at him. "Well, I stretched the truth somewhat. My mistake, I had no idea you would lose all desire to live."

Sam looked back at the smooth dark water, seeing his reflection in it again. This time, he was there in it, recognisable and familiar.

"Would you really prefer death to the fate that has been written for you, Sam?"

He looked up at the Watcher. "I would prefer death to a life without hope."

Samyaza shook his head. "Hope is an illusion, Sam, like love. Pretty illusions to keep men going, when they know in their hearts that darkness will always win and love will always die."

Sam stood up slowly, mouth lifting in a one-sided smile. "Samyaza, that only tells me that you know nothing of either."

* * *

Ruane waved at the guards on the palisade of Black Valley's walls as she went past. She'd considered stopping, spending the night there but had, as she'd ridden up toward the village, decided against it. She was so close to home now, she couldn't wait another evening, couldn't stop and converse and sleep in a bed not her own. She heard hoofbeats coming up behind her a short time later, and turned in the saddle, seeing Yuri cantering along the road.

"Ruane, you are not stopping here?" He panted as he drew up alongside her. She smiled at the young hunter.

"I've been gone for so long, Yuri, I can't stop now, so close to home."

He nodded. "Kirill wanted me to ask after Sam. He has an idea for a war machine, to throw things at the enemy."

She looked away for a moment, biting the edge of her lip. "Sam was captured by the enemy, the demon army. He has been taken away." She gestured to the road ahead of her. "It is another reason I have to get home quickly, to let his brother know of it."

Yuri looked at her. "I will tell Kirill. Do you need more warriors? To go after him?"

She shook her head. "I do not think so, Yuri. The army is right through the mountains now, the demons are burning and killing everywhere. All of our warriors will be needed at home, to defend the people, to keep safe our land." She twisted in the saddle. "Tell Kirill to work on his ideas, and tell Mikhail that he must build his stockpiles of salt and iron. They are coming, they will find a way into the valley and attack us."

"The southern pass is closed, Ruane. Dean and Alis closed it a month ago, when a raiding party tried to come through."

"Good. But it won't be enough. Not to stop them. Casteel … Casteel said they are hunting for a man, and they will kill everyone to ensure that he dies. Tell Mikhail and Kirill to prepare the defences, I don't think they'll give us more than a couple of weeks now."

He nodded, repeating her words soundlessly to himself. "Then ride safe, and take care."

"Yuri." She turned again to look at him. "Tell Mikhail, if the village falls, to bring the people to Deep Ice." She looked back at the road. "Tell all the villages that if they are overrun, to come to us."

"I will."

He wheeled his horse and galloped back down the road, disappearing around the bend of the ridge as the forest began to close around her again.

She wasn't sure why she'd told Yuri that. Every village had its defences now, and none were really any stronger than any other. It had been just a feeling, pushing out of her. She resettled her cloak over her shoulders and pushed the stray lock of hair back behind her ear, clicking to the horses to keep up as she put her legs against her mount's sides and they quickened into a trot.

* * *

Castiel looked up at the steep ridge, the sheer rock and tangled growth along the edges impassable for his horse. The pass had been closed, and looking at the broken rock that filled it, he thought he recognised the hand of Dean Winchester in that destruction.

The demons were close behind him, no more than an hour at most, he thought. He could leave the horse here, climb over the ridge on foot. Something told him not to. The demons might not like being without their horses, but he was sure they would keep tracking him, following him into the valley even if they had to do so on foot. He looked down the road to the south. In a few more miles the forest thinned out slightly. He could head east again, make his way northwards along the lower slopes, find a way through further up.

He shook his head tiredly, looking at the horse beside him. Tough and resilient as the hardy desert animal was, it was thin and as exhausted as he was. He had to find another solution, running ahead of Hell's wolves was killing them both.

"Cas, you have been very difficult to keep track of."

The voice was familiar, and he spun around, staring at the angel in front of him in astonishment.

"Yes, yes, I know, very irregular and all that, but I was told to help you and that's what I'm here to do." Balthazar glanced at the grey horse eating the grass beside the road. "I suppose you need to keep that thing?"

"What are you doing here? I found … I found your bones, on the field of battle …" _Along with my own_, Castiel thought but couldn't say out loud.

"Ah yes. We're looking into that." Balthazar walked to him, smiling a little. "I do realise that it's a shock, old man, but we should get going if we're going to be out of here before those savages with the bows and the pointy little arrows get here."

Castiel nodded. "You can get us out of here?"

"If you could just bring that animal a little closer, yes." Balthazar looked at the horse, wrinkling his nose.

Castiel drew the reins toward him and the horse moved obediently up beside him. Balthazar reached forward, his expression of distaste deepening as he laid his hands on the angel's shoulder and the horse's forehead.

The grey snorted suddenly as they materialised again, this time on the northern side of the pass. Castiel looked at the wall that was now a barrier against his followers, instead of an obstacle for himself.

"They will see me through the rock and follow me."

"Not now." Balthazar looked at him. "You got a little of your power back, when the lightning struck near you, didn't you? Even I've had problems seeing you clearly since then."

"Balthazar, who sent you?"

"Can't tell you that, Cas. You do have friends in high places." The angel looked around, and then back to his friend, his gaze running over the angel's clothing and armour. "I can't say I'm all that impressed by your going native, though."

"Can you – can you help us destroy this mage and prevent Lucifer from rising?" Castiel looked at his friend intently. It would change everything, to have one ally with his power.

"Afraid not. I'm not privy to the higher councils, you understand, but the way everything's been mucked around with, there's a lot of action upstairs to try and straighten it all out."

"So this is an anomaly?" Castiel tried to make sense of how that was possible. "No one in Heaven knew of it?"

"Took everyone by surprise." He looked around again. "You're on your own here, Cas, I don't think there'll be any further help. But I was given a message for you. The purposes of evil can be used against them as a force for good."

"That's it?"

"'Fraid so. I have to go." The whisper of great wings echoed softly against the rock wall.

Castiel stood in the road, staring at empty space. If Heaven knew what was happening, why wasn't anyone doing anything about it? Or was Balthazar trying to tell him that no one knew what was happening, or how to stop it from happening, or even if it could be stopped from happening.

He walked to the edge of the road, sitting down in the long grass to let his horse graze. The Moirai had told him that they'd been forced to change the lines of Destiny by the sacrifice made by the mage, Cesare. In doing so, they'd seen ahead, not all the way, but a part of the way at least. Seen that Lucifer would rise with no one to stop him. They had found him in transit and changed his course, pulling them back to this time, this place. To stop the fallen angel from rising.

Was it possible that Heaven had not seen that, if not before then at least as it had occurred?

He didn't know enough about how destiny was truly supposed to work, he thought. At first, he'd thought it was simple. When a line was either completed, or irretrievably broken, it moved to the next line. But now, he wasn't so sure about that. He had the feeling that somewhere, somehow, this line had been planned and woven as well. Perhaps it wasn't the events themselves that were important to the lines, but those involved in them?


	31. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

* * *

The hall was full of people, from the eldest to the youngest, and for the first time since they'd arrived here, Dean realised, it was quiet. The people sat at the tables and on the floor, along the steps up the staircase, leaned against the walls and stood in the doorways, their faces turned to the back of the room, watching their leaders.

He stood behind Alis, listening to the quiet argument between the dark-haired leader and his daughter.

"They must know what is happening, father," Ruane's voice was low but no longer soft. It wasn't the only change in her, Dean thought, looking at the fierceness in her eyes.

"A leader cannot tell his people everything, Ruane. They will panic, they will not know what to do. I can tell them some things but for their sake, I must keep the worst to myself, to this council."

Alis looked at Vasiliĭ. "Ruane is right, Vasiliĭ. This time is not like other times, it is not the same as raiders or a bad winter or omens of famine."

"Alis, this is exactly like all the other times. We are facing an enemy greater than ourselves and the people need to keep their hope, not face despair."

"Father, listen to me. These people trust you – us – with their lives. We must return that trust and tell them what it is that is coming for us, no matter that they may lose their idea of safety now, they will regain it knowing that it is the same for all, and it is only by standing together, as a single people, that we can fight and survive." Ruane said, the passion in her voice stopping her father's argument momentarily.

"This army is looking for a man, Vasiliĭ," Castiel stood slowly and walked to them from the end of the table, "and your daughter is right. They will not stop, they will not move on until every man, woman and child, every animal and even the trees and the soil of the ground itself, is dead."

Vasiliĭ turned to the angel. "Then we are without hope."

"No. No, we have each other, Father. We have the means to defend ourselves, to drive them from our land. But it has to be all of us. Together, everyone knowing what is at stake."

Vasiliĭ looked at Valenis. She shook her head slightly, her lips pursed together. He looked back at his daughter, his shoulders slumping slightly as he realised that it might be the only way to keep them together, to keep everyone safe. "Then we will tell them what they are facing."

He turned to the hall, clearing his throat uncomfortably. Ruane walked to stand beside, her chin lifted and her shoulders back.

* * *

Dean looked at them, listening to the warnings and plans they spoke of, the defence of the village and the people, the difficulties they would face. He knew how it felt to want to protect the people from the full truth of what was coming, to carry that burden alone. He thought that this time, Ruane was right. These people weren't helpless or foolish. They could fight. He sat down at the long table, feeling torn in half.

"I am glad you waited." Castiel said quietly beside him. He glanced at the angel.

"There wasn't much choice."

"The village is protected, Dean. You've done all that you can here."

He looked around the hall, looked at the faces of the people sitting and standing there, people he knew, had worked shoulder to shoulder with, people he'd willingly fought for, firelight and lamp light shining on old, wrinkled, scarred faces, on smooth, round cheeks and wide eyes. "Have I?"

"You are not abandoning them to their fate." Castiel watched his profile, seeing his uncertainty in the tension in his jaw, the stillness of his body.

"That's funny, because that's exactly what it feels like I'm doing."

"We have a different path to follow."

"Don't give me that destiny crap, Cas. I thought we'd managed to get away from that, coming here, but like a bad penny, it just keeps on coming back, showing up, fucking everything over." The bitterness in his voice made Castiel hesitate.

"It's not just Destiny at work here, Dean."

"So help me god, Cas, if you tell me one more time that there's a greater power at work, I'm gonna punch you in the face." He got up and walked away, trying to damp down the anger that filled him, easing past the people in the doorway to the hall that led to his room.

The prophecy, the sorcerer in the north, Lucifer trapped in the cage and the fates changing the lines of destiny so that he could be released earlier than he should have been, as if he were being paroled for good behaviour … his brother, trapped in the centre of it … the whole mess was unbelievable. Cas had told him about Balthazar's appearance, the angel's confession that Heaven had no idea what was going on and were running around trying to find out. That he believed.

"Dean."

He turned reluctantly, not wanting to talk to anyone right now, but particularly not the slender red-haired woman standing there, watching him. Every time he looked at her, he felt emotions that he didn't understand, contradictory and chaotic, a fierce longing, for what, he didn't know, and a growing sense of panic that whatever it was, he would never get it.

"Not now, Alis." He leaned against the wall and shook his head. "Just, not now."

He heard her soft exhale, the light tapping of her boot soles as she walked away, back to the hall, and felt his chest tighten. He had to find Sam, even if it meant that they both died, he had to find his brother, and stop the fallen angel from rising into this world and decimating it. He didn't know how he was going to live with himself if that decision meant that all these people died, killed by the armies that were almost certainly gathering along the flanks and valleys of the mountains, looking for a way in.

He walked up the keep stairs to his room, going to the small chest Marat had made for him. The sweet scent of cedar rose as he opened it. He pushed aside the clothing, and pulled out his gun, popping the mag free and looking at the line of bullets it held, slamming it back in and checking the safety. He put the gun on the reinforced cuirass he would be wearing and went back to the chest, lifting out his watch and looking at it thoughtfully. He wasn't sure why he felt the strong impulse to take it along, he couldn't think of any reason he'd need to know the precise time, wasn't even sure it was still keeping precise time. But he put it next to the gun anyway.

* * *

Castiel looked up as Alis came back through the doorway, her face closed and tight. He understood the conflict in his friend, knew that the months here among these people, who were, in many respects, very similar to him, had changed Dean in ways that could probably not now be undone. It didn't help that he didn't have enough answers to provide reassurance that Dean was doing the right thing. The answers wouldn't have mattered anyway, Castiel thought. The hunter was doing the only thing he could. There had never really been a choice for him, not in their old life, not here and now.

Valenis had called Sam's image in the water and told him that the Watcher was moving slowly north. Castiel didn't think they would be able to catch up, not until they reached the northern sea, at least. The celestial event spoken of in the prophecy, the solar flare and eclipse, would be on the winter solstice. That was a fixed event, and one he'd been able to confirm. The ritual could not be completed before then, and if they were lucky, and any delays were minimal, they would reach the island of fire and ice well before then.

They would leave in the morning, taking a north-western route over the side of the volcano to get around Armârôs' forces. They would go light, carrying as little food as was practical, and travel as fast as they could around the Black Sea to the northern lands.

He rubbed his temples lightly with his fingertips, recognising the folly of what they were attempting. Only two thousand miles of mountains, forests, rivers and lakes to cross, with winter bearing down on them, and the last two hundred miles or so would have to be on foot, because the terrain was unsuitable for the horses, with little or no feed, and probably a snow pack, wherever it could settle, or frozen tundra with high velocity, ice-laden winds.

Travelling hard, they might make forty or fifty miles a day. He was sure that Samyaza was moving at least that fast. It would be mid-November before they reached the lands that would become Finland in the future. At least mid-November.

* * *

The land had flattened out, and silver flashes gleamed like fish scales in the glary grey light, water lying still across the plains, between the spindly copses of half-submerged trees, and amidst the reeds that dominated the low-lying banks of the river.

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the mists rise and swirl away from the Scythians. They rode through the marsh, the occasional bird's cry and the steady splashing of the horse's hooves in the standing water punctuated now and then by a deep squelch as a hoof or foot went too deeply into the mud. There was little wind in the broad shallow basin, not enough to lift the scents of decaying plant matter and rancid mud.

"How old is your master?" He turned to the Watcher riding beside him, his voice low.

"I don't know." Samyaza answered absently, his attention mostly on the soldiers riding around them, on the treacherous ground they were crossing.

"I heard he was pretty old, over five hundred years."

The Watcher turned his head, looking at him consideringly. "That's not all that old, you know. I'm several times older than that."

"You were an angel. Your master is just a man."

"Not just, Sam. Cesare is not _just_ anything."

The silence stretched out for moments and Sam wondered if he should try another line of questions, when Samyaza began speaking.

"I don't know that much about him. I can feel him, at the back of my mind, listening, talking to me sometimes, sleeping sometimes but aware. He was born in these lands, further to the west, in a village that has no name. He came into his power late, when he was already grown to manhood. He spent years … centuries … searching for a way to get more power, to become powerful enough."

"Powerful enough for what?" Sam asked softly, wondering if this was the Watcher talking to him, or the mage trying to gain his trust through confidences.

"To control Time." Samyaza looked at him and blinked rapidly several times. "This place is not safe, we will have to move faster to get out of here."

Sam nodded, following as the soldiers turned west. Had Samyaza been in control for those few minutes of conversation? It was hard to tell. The information had seemed freely given. And when he'd changed, it had seemed as if he had no memory of what he'd just been talking about. Maybe there was a way to reach the man through the control of the mage.

* * *

Alis looked over the horses again. She'd been up for several hours, preparing the supplies, feeding and watering the horses, checking and double-checking their weapons, their food, the things that would mean the difference between life and death on the journey. They were taking the Scythian horses. Although they weren't as fast as the Arabians, they would survive better in the conditions they were going to be facing, and would fare better when it was time to turn them loose and continue on foot. Vasiliĭ had already laid out a breeding program for the Arabs and their own horses to improve their stock, ready for the spring. She liked the leader's optimism.

"Alis."

She turned around, seeing her mother standing by the pen rails.

"Are you sure about this?" Valenis' voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

"Yes." Alis shrugged. It was long past too late to change her mind now. She had made her decision. She would stand by it.

Valenis' face softened as she looked at her daughter. "I am glad to see you becoming the person you were born to be."

Alis felt her breath catch in her throat as old pain, unresolved, rose in her chest. "You don't think I would have been that person as a wife, as a mother?"

Valenis reached out and touched her daughter's cheek gently. "Those things will still come to you, but you will know who you are when you get them, Alis. I know it was hard, when Petyr disappeared –"

"It wasn't hard. It was stupid. I was a child, I was a fool." She turned away, her fingers running again over the rope that held the saddlebags. "I learned from that mistake, I won't make it again."

"Alis, that wasn't a mistake, it was just … experience. Just life."

Valenis had had this conversation with Alis many times now. She couldn't tell if it had been pride that had been so wounded, or if her daughter had really loved the man, but like herself at the same age, Alis had gone to the other extreme and shut herself off, refusing to let anyone so close again, though she flirted with the young men, sometimes stealing their hearts and throwing them back. Valenis couldn't get through, couldn't find the words to explain to the young woman that everything worth anything was a risk, and no matter what happened, taking the risk was more important than hiding from it.

"It makes no difference, Mother." She looked over her shoulder. "You told me that a healer must have no more heart than a shrike, must make the hard decisions to save the body over the limb. As a warrior that applies also. I am suited to this, for the one thing I am rid of is a heart."

"Alis, that's not what I meant at all."

"Can we not talk about this again?" Alis looked down. "Give me your blessings for the success of this hunt, because we have to succeed. Warn me of the way we must go to keep us safe to the northern sea. Give me something I can use."

Valenis sighed. "Samyaza has gone around the marshes. You can gain time by going through them, so long as you remember the dangers. There is a path, midway between the river and the forest, it is firm from one side to the other, but there are Whisperers in the mists, and you must make the circle of protection every night you sleep in them."

Alis nodded, listening to Valenis' description of the path, the landmarks she would see, the signs that would keep them on it, committing them to a memory well-trained in holding vital information.

Valenis' eyes darkened slightly as memories filled her mind's eye, the lands she'd crossed, and what she'd experienced on the long journey from her homeland to the lands of the south. "You are in most danger when you are crossing north of the marshes, Alis. From Sabirs, there are ice storms, the _poorga_ from the north east is very strong that will cause the temperatures to fall fast and deep. The cold from them can kill. You must find shelter if you see the darkness line the eastern horizon, underground if possible or at least under as much cover as you can find or build."

She shook off the past, focussing on her daughter's face again. "Castiel says that the fort, the old one that Katchenka knew of, is by a lake. I looked for it tonight and I can still see the clouds that surround it. Be careful there, for the mage trapped many things in the circles he made around the place."

Alis watched her mother's eyes lose their focus again, her attention turned inward. She felt herself shiver as Valenis' voice whispered to her, "Remember that gratitude sometimes is a greater lever than fear. That everything you give out will be returned to you, greater than the original gift."

"Mother?"

The older woman's pupils contracted, returning to outward awareness, and Valenis leaned forward, kissing Alis on the forehead. "You will know when you have healed," she said softly. "You will feel it."

Alis looked past her as Dean and Castiel came through the barn door. "Watch us in the water, I will watch for you as well."

Her mother nodded and turned to Castiel, lifting her hand and laying it lightly against his forehead in a gesture curiously reminiscent of the angel's own. "Your powers are returning, Castiel."

He looked at her in surprise. "I cannot feel that."

"You will." She smiled at him. "I think, for a short time, you were happy without them."

He looked away, knowing that was, at least partly, true.

Dean watched the angel's discomfort. He'd wondered if Cas had enjoyed being mortal. As a man, he'd seemed more … decisive, maybe. Able to make decisions, anyway.

Valenis looked up at him and he wanted to look away, aware that the healer sometimes saw things that no one else did.

"Take care of my daughter, Dean."

He hadn't expected that, and he nodded awkwardly, glancing at Alis who was fiddling with the horse's harness, her back to them.

Valenis walked out of the barn and both Dean and Castiel exhaled with relief. She was a formidable woman, and neither felt completely easy in her presence, uncomfortably conscious that she saw too much, and had too little regard for propriety or personal feelings.

The horses stood along the rails of the pens, saddled and ready, their bridles loose around their necks.

"Everything ready?" Dean walked to his dark brown mare, slipping the bridle over her ears, settling it comfortably against her nose and cheeks. He untied her from the rail and walked to the door, waiting there.

"Yes." Alis followed him down the wide aisle of the barn, leading a dun mare and looking back over her shoulder. Castiel finishing bridling and turned the bay gelding to follow them.

They mounted in the square, double checking girths and stirrup leathers, then turned for the gate. None of the guards on the wall had a smile for them tonight, their slowly lifted hands more funereal than well-wishing. Dean grinned up at them, automatically showing a confidence he wasn't feeling.

"We'll be back before the spring. Our stories'll be better than yours," he called and raised answering smiles from Lyre and Avram at least.

"Better be back before next midsummer's eve, Dean!" Lyre called out as they rode through the gate.

* * *

Going around the marsh had slowed them down considerably, Sam thought. And they'd lost two of the Scythians in the night while they'd been trying to get free of it. He wasn't sure what had taken them; Samyaza had lit fires to completely encircle the camp when it had been obvious that they weren't going to make it all the way out before dark. He and the Watcher had sat in the centre of the camp, the soldiers forming a wall around them, the fires a second barrier beyond. Still something had managed to get through. He thought it might have been a crocotta. The noise of the fires and the conversations of the soldiers had drowned out most of the night's sounds through the evening, but later, sometime between midnight and dawn he'd thought he'd heard a voice, his brother's voice calling distantly to him. If it had been a crocotta, Samyaza obviously hadn't known anything about them.

The mage was relying on the Watcher a lot, he thought, and the Watcher didn't have any experience of the monsters and dangers of these northern lands. The mage wasn't keeping as close an eye on them as he thought he would. The last part of the prophecy talked of the challenger, a man who would defeat Lucifer with a sword of blood. Was that what the armies were focussing on now? Finding and killing this man so there would be no challenge? He guessed that was probably the case. It didn't quite explain how much time Cesare was devoting to his armies though. Seek and destroy was an easy enough command, even for the most addled of demon-possessed brains. Was there something else? He wondered if he could find a way to use Cesare's divided attention to his own advantage.

The endless speculations didn't help him all that much, other than give his mind something to occupy itself with. Samyaza had spelled another pool for him, he'd watched Ruane sitting in her room, the bruising faded a little, listening to the healer talking about something. He'd realised, watching them, seeing the tension in both of their faces, that her safety was only relative. The armies were closing in against the mountains, and they would get in sometime, and attack the villages, looking for this challenger.

He looked up as Samyaza dropped cross-legged beside him, the Watcher's face thin and drawn now, that odd reddish cast that sometimes tinted the silver irises of his eyes not present at the moment.

"Where do we go from here?" Sam asked quietly. The Watcher reached for the iron pot on the fire, pouring out hot water into two cups. He replaced the pot on the fire and pulled the small pouch that held a mix of sweet herbs and tea from the bag at his belt, adding several pinches to each cup before he looked up.

"There is a ship, waiting on the coast for us. It will take another couple of weeks for us to reach it."

"Which coast?" Sam looked down at the cups, watching the leaves slowly sink as the water turned a golden brown.

"You have many questions."

Sam's head snapped up at the change in the voice of the Watcher. He saw the eyes were sharp on him now, a hint of red in the irises, as if firelight was reflected in them.

"Just curious."

Samyaza laughed softly. "Oh, I don't think you're 'just' anything, Samuel Winchester. I have looked behind and I have looked ahead and it is always you, as fixed as the stars in their positions in the sky, always you, and your brother and the other one, who I can no longer see clearly."

Sam felt a chill run down his spine. "If it's always us, then you know that it always ends the same way."

Samyaza's mouth stretched out into a smile. "Not always. Sometimes you win. Sometimes I win. Sometimes the Lord of Hell wins. The players remain the same but the game changes from time to time."

"This is going to be one of the times we win. And you will be destroyed. And Lucifer as well."

"This time I have Fate under my control, Samuel."

Sam stared at him, seeing the red fade from the silver eyes, Samyaza looking back down at the cups and handing him one, his expression smooth and calm, his movements very slightly stiff.

"Drink. It will warm you."

The mage's intonation and speech patterns had gone from his voice, but it wasn't exactly the voice of the Watcher either. Sam had the distinct impression he was looking at a puppet, a life-sized puppet, the mind empty and clean.

* * *

It was nightfall again by the time they reached the ford of Black River. Dean leaned back between the roots of the tree he was resting against, looking at the small fire. He'd managed to shut away his fear for his brother for most of the day, but now that they'd stopped moving, he could feel it gnawing away at the edge of the wall it was locked behind.

"Cas, why doesn't Lucifer want me instead of Sam?" He looked at the angel, leaning back against a long log on the other side of the fire.

"Valenis told you about the bloodlines?"

"Yeah, a bit. She said the Campbells were descended from Azazel, the Winchesters from a different Watcher."

Castiel nodded. "Araquiel. Azazel's line was compatible with Lucifer. His vessel had to come from that line."

"But we're both from that line, from both lines."

The angel sighed. "You received more of the angel heritage from Araquiel, for some reason. It's not the same as human genetics, Dean. Sam received more of Azazel's … coding. It made him more suitable for Lucifer. And Araquiel's coding went through your father's line, it is compatible with Michael."

Dean shook his head. "Sam's more like Dad than I ever was."

"That's not true, actually." Castiel flicked a glance at him.

"Trust me, Cas. It's true." Dean closed his eyes.

Alis sat cross-legged on the grass, looking across the fire from one to the other. "What does it mean, to be a vessel?"

Dean snorted. Castiel looked at him for a moment, then back to the young woman. "A vessel is a human who consents to an angel inhabiting them, so that the angel can perform tasks on this earthly plane."

"That's one way of putting it."

Alis glanced at Dean. "You mean the angel possesses the human? Like the demons do?"

"No." Castiel said firmly.

"Yeah." Dean opened an eye and looked at her. "That's what it is, no matter how nicely you word it."

The angel frowned at him. "Angels must have the consent of the human."

Dean shrugged.

"But Penemue, was he in a vessel also?"

"No. That was his body. He chose to fall, at God's request, and his body was created when he did."

"The other Watchers, Samyaza and the ones who control the armies, the demons, they are in their own bodies as well?"

"Yes."

"How is it that this sorcerer can control them from so far away, Castiel? My mother said that the spells required for that kind of magic would take enormous energy, more than a single person could provide or sustain."

"The sorcerer is using some kind of device, Alis. To communicate with the Watchers, to control their actions. I don't know how it works." He hesitated, thinking about Valenis' comment on the energy draw. He didn't know much about the practices of human magic. It revolved around symbolic language, the language that humans required to speak to their own subconscious, the link between their minds and the energy of the universe. The power of angels was simpler.

"I thought Valenis wasn't a witch?" Dean looked at her from half-closed eyes.

"Well, she's not Baba Yaga, she doesn't do evil things or eat children or try to destroy the world," Alis turned back to him, "but she has power, she knows how to draw energy from a circle, and how to use it to make healing faster. She knows how to make protection and use spells. Is that what you mean by a witch?"

Dean frowned slightly and Castiel flicked a sideways glance at the man, cutting in.

"This is a different world from our own, Alis. Magic is more easily accessible now, than it is in the future. Stronger. And people have changed so much that they cannot access their own power, and have turned to demons for it."

Alis' brows shot up. "Is that why you have so many demons in your time?"

Castiel rubbed his fingers over his forehead tiredly. "It's entirely likely."


	32. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

* * *

"What's to stop the bad guys from finding this and coming in this way?" Dean looked up at the narrow slit between the cliffs, brows drawn together as the setting sun painted a thin line of gold down the length of his face.

"Nothing." Alis knelt beside his horse, tying off the rawhide strip that bound the thick, loosely woven cloth around the hoof. She straightened up and pulled another cloth from her belt, moving to the near hind and lifting it, wrapping the cloth around the hoof up to the pastern and setting the hoof down, tying the cloth firmly with another strip of hide to the leg. "That's why we're taking these precautions."

They were three miles from Black Valley, against the western mountain ridge in a narrow gorge. The dun mare and bay gelding, hooves covered in the cloth to disguise the shape and muffle the sound, stood quietly. After dark they would go out through the thin break between the rock walls and down to the forest, hopefully avoiding any patrols that might be there, and leaving no sign of where they'd come from.

Dean looked down at the ground around the horses. Instead of the obvious hoofprints, the ground around their feet held soft impressions, shapeless and indistinct. He rubbed the brown mare's forehead absently as Alis finished the last hoof, the off hind.

"Most of Armârôs' army is on the eastern side, searching along the ridges for a way in or over that isn't too treacherous." Castiel looked at him. "If we're seen a few miles away, it won't matter so much, but we don't want to advertise this route."

He nodded impatiently. He knew that they had to be careful, had to make sure they left no trace of where they'd come from. He dragged in a deep lungful of air, to loosen the tightness of his chest, relax the muscles of his back. The sense of time running away from him had accelerated in the last couple of days and he couldn't stop the tension from building up with every halt and every delay. The distances seemed laughable when he thought about the car, but the car was in the future, the gasoline that could have run it buried deeply in the ground, thick and viscous and unrefined, and by foot, even by horse, every mile took time.

Alis handed him two cloths and strips of rawhide, and gave a couple to Castiel, sitting down and wrapping her own feet in the soft material and binding it around her ankles.

Castiel wound the cloths over his boots and tied it on, looking up as he did it. So far, the weather was holding, the days and nights spectacularly clear, the air crisp but not yet very cold. He thought they would have another hundred and fifty miles to go before they got out of the mountain range. Three days steady travelling. They would follow the flank of Mt Elbrus tomorrow, and he hoped once that was behind him, the demon armies would no longer be a threat. At least to them.

* * *

They ate and rested as they waited for the sun to set, for dusk to pass and night to settle down over them, then led the horses into the narrow pass that the villagers called the Throat. The starlight was bright enough to show the edges of the rocks, but little else. The defile twisted slightly along its length and Alis stopped, several yards from the opening on the other side, moving silently on her own to check that they weren't about to come out into a camp of soldiers. The hillside was empty, the forest below only a few hundred yards away, down the steep, grassy slope.

Leading the horses quietly through the trees, Dean turned his thoughts to the prophecy again. The Corival, Cas had called the other man the armies were looking for. A counterbalance to the rising of Lucifer. He knew Cas thought it was him, although how the angel had come to the conclusion he wasn't sure. He hadn't done much to Lucifer when he'd had the chance in Carthage. One of five things the Colt couldn't kill, the angel had told his brother. How freaking convenient.

The prophecy talked about the Corival destroying the mage, and turning into a dragon, wielding a sword. How was he supposed to take that? How could a mortal man turn into a dragon, find a sword that was forged in the fires of Heaven? Didn't anyone ever have a vision that was straightforward and could be described in plain English? The prophecy had been misleading about describing Sam as well, he supposed that same vagueness could apply here.

Something about Sam and the prophecy was bothering him, he couldn't remember exactly what it was, but it scratched at his mind. The wording, he thought, trying to remember exactly how the prophecy had described it. He glanced back at Castiel, and shook off the thought as he realised he'd have to wait until they could safely talk again.

The forest was thick and steep, their feet and the horse's hooves slipped over the needles that covered the track so that they had to go slowly. He could see the pale lightening of the sky against the peaks of the mountains by the time they reached the gentler incline of the temperate forest, pine and spruce and birch thinning out, oak and maple taking their place. Alis stopped and untied the lacing from the cloth around her feet, Dean and Castiel following suit as quickly as possible. They unwrapped the cloths covering their horses' hooves and mounted, relieved to be able to move normally, to be able to get a grip on the ground again.

The long walk down the mountain had given the horses a much-needed respite from the speed that they'd been travelling and they trotted along the flatter trails comfortably, heart rates low and steady, breathing easily.

Ahead, as the light grew stronger and the first rays started to spill over the serrated range to the east, they could see the towering twin peaks of the volcano, snow glistening at the summits, the darker rock of hardened lava from the last explosion like a shadow down the side. The western side was heavily forested and they would stay within the forest until they reached the northern face. From there, they could descend, following the coastline of the Black Sea north and west until they reached the much smaller Sea of Azov, and had to travel around it to get to the Ukraine.

"Cas, what was the exact wording in the prophecy about Sam?" Dean closed his fingers lightly on the reins, his mare slowing and Castiel's horse moving up beside him.

"_And I saw a mortal man, born of an angel and demon, who was his doorway." _Castiel looked at him. "Why?"

"Why does it say 'doorway'?" Dean looked down at the road ahead of them. "Why that distinction?"

"I don't know. Perhaps the prophet didn't know about vessels?"

"A doorway implies something that you go through, not something you stay in."

The angel raised an eyebrow at the man beside him. "That's a good point, but I'm not sure the prophecy itself is that pedantic about it."

"In our time, Lucifer told Sam that he had always been his vessel." He chewed on the edge of his lip, trying to remember all the crap the fallen angel had spouted at them over the times they'd seen him face to face, and what Sam had said about his dreams of the devil.

"Yes?"

"I don't know. It's bugging me." Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know why, but it is."

Castiel considered the wording again. "I don't know that I would give it too much attention, Dean. The phrase 'born of an angel and demon' was also misleading."

"Yeah, but it's accurate as well." He looked up at the side of the mountain, not really wanting to ask the next question, needing to know the answer. "Why do you think I'm the one who's supposed to take Lucifer on?"

Castiel was silent, and Dean turned his head to look back at the angel.

"The Moirai said that we three had always been tied to Lucifer, to his rising, to his fall. And I am not a mortal man." He looked at Dean. "Right through your life, Dean, you've been the defender, the protector. I don't think it's all that you are, but I think that's what you think of yourself."

He watched his friend's face close up, that shuttered look that he used to keep others away, when he felt vulnerable.

"You got any ideas on how I'm supposed to find a sword of blood? Or turn into a dragon?" His mouth twisted sardonically. "Or fire thunderbolts from my hands?"

"No." Castiel looked down at the reins in his hands. "I think that whatever it is you need, we'll find it somewhere along the way."

He heard the derisive snort and sighed.

"Good plan. I feel better already."

"Sarcasm doesn't help."

"No. But it makes me feel less like a friggin' puppet." Dean shook his head. "Michael isn't going to beam down and insist that I'm supposed to be the vessel for this fight, is he?"

"No. This mage, Cesare, is controlling the Fates in some way – through the living sacrifice, I think – and Michael wasn't seen in the prophecy."

"You know, that's another thing. How can anyone, witch or not, control the Fates?"

"Almost everything can be controlled or directed by something, Dean. Everything has a counterpoint, everything has an opposite or has some fracture that leverage can be used against." The angel looked at him. "It's just a matter of finding out what it is."

* * *

Sam sat on his horse looking down at the countryside spread out in front of them, eyes wide. The rolling land was richly forested and dotted with lakes, large and small.

"Where are we?" He turned to look at the Watcher.

"Jumalten." Samyaza glanced at him. "Land of the gods. The old gods, of course."

"How far are we from the coast?" Sam asked.

"Twenty miles to the small sea to the west. But we will travel another nine hundred miles to get to the north coast. It will be safer than these waters." Samyaza wheeled his horse and waited for Sam to turn in front of him.

Sam thought hard. Nine hundred miles to the coast – the north coast. He dragged up his memories of northern Europe. If they were heading for Iceland, then the north coast was probably going to be Norway, he thought. Nine hundred miles south east of Norway … could be Russia, maybe. Or Finland.

What the hell was he doing with this useless information? _Keeping yourself sane_, the internal response was quiet, but certain. If he could find a way to get free, it would sure help to know which direction he was going run in.

He glanced around at the soldiers surrounding him, only ten now after the vampyre and the crocottas in the marsh. He wondered if he should be grateful to the monsters for whittling down the numbers.

"Even if you could escape, Samuel, you wouldn't get far. Kokabiel has marked you and any demon can find you now, no matter where you run, or hide." Samyaza's voice was not his own, and Sam felt a chill ripple through him at the words of the sorcerer.

"Can't blame me for thinking about it," he said lightly, turning to look at the Watcher, seeing the red glint in his eyes.

"Of course not. I'd be disappointed if you weren't." The Watcher winked at him and he turned away.

"What do you get out of all this, anyway?"

"The usual things. Power, fame, glory." Samyaza shrugged.

Sam felt his mouth lift, the smile humourless and involuntary. "You don't know Lucifer too well."

"The Lord of the Underworld has promised me the power to change the world." Samyaza's head snapped around to look at him.

"Yeah, well, Lucifer is also known as the Prince of Lies." Sam looked at him coolly. "And he's not big on keeping promises. He hates humanity. He'll wipe the earth clean when he gets here, you know."

Samyaza was silent, looking at him, the reddish tint more pronounced against the silver eyes now. "How could you know so much about him?"

"Didn't the Moirai tell you where we came from?"

He saw that he'd surprised the sorcerer a second time and smiled a little more widely. "_There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy._"

"Shut your mouth." The Watcher's eyes narrowed to slits and the words were almost spat out.

Sam shrugged and turned away. Cesare was rattled, he knew that. It wasn't so surprising that the sorcerer hadn't really known what he was dealing with, either the angel he was trying to resurrect or the elemental forces he was trying to use to achieve it. He wondered what else the sorcerer had meddled with that he hadn't known the full story on. The living sacrifice, maybe. The Corival?

"We'll ride till dusk today."

The Watcher's voice was his own again. Sam glanced at him, seeing that his eyes were clear and aware. Cesare had gone, perhaps to go and question his servants.

* * *

Alis crouched by the small puddle of water, held in a depression in the black rock. She had cleared her mind and focussed her thoughts on her mother, on the village, and the images swam up from the bottom, displacing the reflection of her face. Valenis looked back at her, her face drawn with worry. Behind her, the window show masses of dark cloud piling up against the mountains to the east, and she knew that was what her mother was worried about, the _buran_ was coming, early this year, like the other storms, and maybe more severely than in other years.

She touched the surface of the water and the images were broken by the ripples, when the water stilled again it was only her face she saw.

She turned and looked east, the mountains blocking most of the sky in that direction. They were barely thirty miles from Temerind, she thought, the storm wouldn't hit them for another few hours. But before it did, they would need good shelter, for the horses as well, protected from the wind and cold, with plenty of wood for keeping warm and cooking. The easterly storm wasn't like the _poorga_, the ice wind that swept from the far north east, but it brought severe blizzards to the mountains every year, could drop the temperatures very low, and would bring masses of snow with it.

Now, with the knowledge of it, she could see the animals of the forest reacting to its approach. She watched a flock of birds wheel in the pale sky and head south and west, across the sea to more sheltered lands further west.

"Castiel, Dean, there's a storm coming. We need to find shelter, a cave preferably, big enough to bring the horses into as well." She straightened and took her mount's reins from the angel, swinging into the saddle and moving off as they mounted quickly and followed.

"How do you know?" Dean looked behind them. The pale sky looked as it had all morning, featureless and flat, neither blue nor grey, almost white.

"It's at Deep Ice already. I saw it in the water." She gestured around them. "And here the animals are looking for shelter, the birds are leaving. We'll have a few hours to find a good place, but that's all. We do not want to get caught in this."

"There were some large caves in the northern foothills, I believe." Castiel hurried his horse up beside her.

"Yes. I know the ones you mean. They are not too far from here." She pushed her mare into a canter, the urgency transferring from her to the horse, and in the upper airs over the mountains, the wind freshened.

* * *

Dean looked around the broad valley. Bisected by a wide, shallow stream, it faced west, gently sloping down to the dark grey water of the inland sea, nearly two miles away. The long, high ridge to the south held several wide, dark openings in the rock face.

The wind was gusting in the trees that covered the slopes, the noise reminding him of the sound of ocean waves on a beach. The temperature had already dropped a lot, he thought, as if the heat had been sucked out of the air. Castiel stood beside him, holding the horses as Alis looked carefully through the largest of the caves. Several deadfalls on the other side of the valley were dry and weathered, there would be enough wood to keep fires going for a while, if what she said about the duration of the storm was accurate. He wasn't so sure how the horses would feel about having a fire near them.

He looked up as she hurried up to them.

"Can you get wood? Both of you? I'll take the horses in, there are two good caves in there, deep under the ridge, they will protect us."

He nodded and handed her the reins of his mare. Castiel followed him across the short, springy grass, still green despite the frosts. Alis turned and led the three horses into the caves, disappearing from sight almost immediately.

Loaded with armfuls of wood, Dean saw why as he crossed the pasture and entered the cave. The first cave was large and shallow, a scoop out of the rock wall. At the rear and to one side, a wide tunnel led back into the hill, curving around and opening up into two more caves far back, behind the first. The horses were standing to one side of the cavern, unsaddled and hobbled. Alis had moved their packs and bedrolls to the second cave, which was deeper underground, almost egg-shaped with a high domed roof. She'd set out a large circle of stones and he dumped his armful of wood next to it.

He met her in the tunnel on the way back out, her arms filled with dry hay, cut from the streamside where a small marsh still held a good stand of reeds. The next time he and Castiel brought back a load of wood, she was staggering back with two skin bucketfuls of water for the horses.

Castiel lit the fire as Dean brought in the last load of wood, dumping the thicker branches along the walls of the cave.

"Is that enough? It's starting to snow out there."

Alis glanced at the stack of wood along the wall and nodded. "Should be."

The flames of the fire flickered wildly as the wind gusted through the caves, and she stood, walking quickly down the tunnel. Dean followed, slowing as he saw that the afternoon had turned to night, the cloud mass over them and the wind roaring hollowly down the valley and whipping up the water of the sea.

"So this is normal? This kind of storm?" He glanced at her.

"Not this early. But yes, the _buran_ is a winter wind here, very strong and bringing a lot of snow. Especially around here, near this sea." Alis pulled her cloak more tightly around herself, looking out into the wild night. "We will know in the morning how big this storm is."

She turned around and walked back up the tunnel, the air still now that the variable gusts had passed over them, the main front blowing strongly from a single direction. Dean shivered as he felt the temperature dropping further, glad that the caves were holding the warmth of the fire.

They ate and Alis built up the fire, the wood burning well but the temperature in the cave not really rising as the cold air mass slowed down above them. The horses browsed through the hay and slept, their thick coats keeping them comfortable, especially in this deep shelter where there was no wind.

Castiel rolled himself into the fur-lined bedroll and was asleep in minutes. Dean looked at him curiously. Angels didn't sleep. He wasn't sure if Cas had just acquired the habit, or if he was still more mortal than angel.

He was tired but not ready for sleep. He pulled out his whetstone and honed his knife slowly, the firelight bright enough to read by, bright enough to see the details of edge as it became keener. Alis sat cross-legged on her bedroll, working some softened fat into the leather of her boots. He watched her long, wiry fingers bend and flex the leather, the firelight lending a golden tint to her skin.

She looked up, dipping her finger into the softened fat, picking up a small pat of it and extending it to him. "Try this, on the blade, it will keep the heat of out the metal while you sharpen. Give you a sharper edge."

He wiped the pat off the end of her finger onto his and smeared it along the edge of his knife, running the stone lightly over it again. She was the blacksmith's daughter, he thought dryly, she should know what she's talking about. The coarse honing stone absorbed the fat, and the tiny nicks and notches disappeared from the edge of the blade.

"What is living in your time like?"

Dean looked over at her, unable to see her face, as she bent over the leather.

"Convenient." He looked back to the stone, thinking about their world, their time. "Crowded. Fast." _Lonely. Painful. Confusing_, he thought.

"Do you miss it?"

He set the knife aside and put the stone away. "Some things I do. Others, not so much."

"What do you miss?"

He smiled. "My car. Uh, being able to communicate over long distances easily. Fast food. Highways. Guns."

She set her boot down and picked up the other one. "You don't miss your home? The people?"

"We didn't have a home. And yeah, I miss some people, but most of the people we knew back there, they died." He leaned back against his saddle and closed his eyes.

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Yeah."

The silence grew in the cave. He could see the flicker of the firelight through his closed lids, hear the faint sounds of her hands working the leather, the soft crackle as a piece of wood burned and fell to ashes, the other pieces settling over it. Distantly he heard the wind, still howling down the valley.

"It's not like here," he said quietly. "It's not so simple as having enough to eat, a place to sleep. People have changed. There aren't many hunters, and no one believes in monsters anymore. Except the people who run into them by accident, I guess."

He heard her breathing change slightly, and knew she was listening.

"The things that you take for granted here … like, uh, honour and loyalty, and, um, keeping promises, and having each other's backs … that's not so common in my world. There are a lot more people, millions and millions more people, but it seems like they're all on their own."

He stopped, not knowing really what he trying to express to her. The life she'd lived, that he'd lived for the last few months, was so different, so much more than he'd felt in their world … and yet, he guessed, for a lot of people in his time, it hadn't been so different. A bit more confusing, a bit more sedentary, maybe … but he thought most people had their friends, their family to fall back on. Coming here was different for him, and for Sam, because they'd lost those people, because of the fight they were in.

That fight was here now, and he dragged his thoughts away from the losses he knew were coming.

"Sounds like a lonely place," Alis said.

"Yeah. For us, it was. Maybe not for most people. I don't know." He thought of the motels, the long ribbons of concrete and asphalt and gravel he'd travelled, the way he'd drowned his pain and the grey wall of despair that had always been within arm's reach.

"Do you like this time better?"

He opened his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at her. She hadn't moved, wasn't looking at him, her attention on the boot in her hands, but he could feel some slight difference in her question, in her voice.

"I like the simplicity of it. I like knowing what I have to do and being able to get on and do it." He watched her. "I'm not crazy about the way things are going right now."

She smiled. "No."

"I like the people of this world, Alis, I like …" He struggled to find the words to express what he'd felt, what he still felt, the satisfaction of doing real things, the contentment of being with people who thought the way he did, who felt the way he did about the things that were important to him, of having work for his body and for his mind that was challenging and tested him. He liked who he was here. "I feel like maybe I belong here."

She looked at him, her eyes shadowed. "Without you, and Sam and Castiel, we would all be dead now. Slaughtered in the first attack in the valley." She looked down. "I think you were sent here, to help us. To save us."

He looked at the fire, uncomfortable. "I didn't do that much, Alis."

"Whoever sent you, Dean, whatever it is that makes you the way you are, I would certainly be dead if you hadn't been here."

"That wasn't … that was automatic, I didn't think about it." He tried to brush off the significance of that instinctive act.

She smiled. "I know. It's who you are."

Putting down the boot, she resealed the clay pot that held the fat and tucked it into her saddlebag, drawing the warm fur of her bedroll over her.

"You don't have heroes, in your world, your time?"

He looked at her sharply. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"

She shrugged, closing her eyes. "You protect those in danger, those who cannot protect themselves, you put yourself into harm's way without thought, you are driven to stop evil. You are a hero, Dean."

He looked down at her, the scowl automatic, as denial took over. "No, I'm not. I'm not anything special, Alis."

He heard the faint laughter from her bedroll and pulled his own over himself, rolling over away from her, away from the bright firelight. He wasn't a hero. He just did what he could. And usually messed it up. Or let those depending on him down. He closed his eyes. Maybe he'd saved her life. And maybe the people of the valley would have a better chance now. But it hadn't been heroic. He hadn't done anything that anyone else wouldn't have done, in the same place.


	33. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

* * *

The log fell apart with a burst of sparks and a soft crackle into the embers. Dean opened his eyes, rolling over and pushing the fur back as he reached for another log and put it onto the fire. He couldn't hear the wind anymore, couldn't hear anything other than the small noises in the cave, the steady breathing of Castiel and Alis, the snuffle and occasional stamp of the horses in the cavern beyond. The cave was cold, despite the warmth of the fire, and he pulled the fur from his bedroll, drawing it around his shoulders as he stood up.

He added several more pieces of wood to the freshening flames, and moved the iron pot over them, checking that it held enough water. Pulling on his boots, he walked through the cavern and into the tunnel, following its curve to the outside. The cold increased as he got closer to the entrance, his breath coming out first in clouds of white, then in the star-whispers that Alis had mentioned, when the temperatures were below minus forty degrees, the moisture in his breath freezing as soon it hit the air, falling to the ground at his feet as tiny droplets of ice. His lungs burned with the cold and he pulled the fur high around his neck and face, knowing he'd lose any exposed flesh and maybe fingers and toes if he stayed out here too long.

The valley was white, still and silent, the branches of the trees lining both sides, bowed down with ice. He frowned at the view down the valley, knowing something was missing but unable to think what it was for a few moments. It slowly registered that the sea had vanished, the snow stretching out as far as he could see west in an unbroken sheet of white. He shivered slightly, and turned back into the tunnel, feeling the numbness of his feet, even in the boots.

Alis was awake when he got back, and the fire was spreading more warmth through the cave. He crouched beside it, looking at her.

"It's freezing out there, and a lot of snow fell in the night." He held his hands out to the flames. "And the sea seems to have frozen over."

She nodded. "It does that. It will help us. If the big sea has started to freeze already, then the Temerind might be solid enough to cross."

"What's the Temerind?"

"The Sea of Azov." Castiel sat up in his bedroll, rubbing his eyes. "It lies to the north of the Black Sea. It's smaller, more freshwater in it. It used to freeze over even in our time, and it's colder now, in this time."

Alis nodded. "Near the opening, it's only a few miles across, and shallow sandbanks for most of it. It will save us a long walk around it."

"Can we move through this cold? All that snow?" Dean watched her make the tea that Valenis had provided for them, thinking of how quickly his feet had numbed.

"Yes. We will have to be careful, to keep under the forest where the air is not so cold as the open ground, and we must keep moving, but we can keep travelling."

She made the thick porridge of grain and nuts and dried fruit that was a staple in their supplies, and they ate quickly, pulling on extra shirts under the armour, and thick fur cloaks over. Dean looked at the rabbit skin mittens he'd made for the angel when they'd first arrived, still tucked into his bag. Guin had made them thicker pairs for the journey from mink, the beautifully soft fur on the inside, the outside oiled heavily to keep moisture out, and he pulled them on. They made using his hands clumsy, but it was worth it for the warmth and the protection.

* * *

They packed up the camp and loaded the horses, and floundered out through the deep snow drifts that covered the ground in front of the caves, feeling the air bite through the layers of clothes, the layers of thick woollen cloth wrapped around their heads and faces. They were lucky there was no wind, Dean thought uneasily, looking at the white sky. It would have snap frozen any skin that was bare.

Under the closely spaced trees of the forest, there were still mounds and drifts but it was easier to make their way through them. The horses walked quietly beside them, their breath snorting out like glass waterfalls as the moisture froze and fell, the faint tinkles and chimes as they hit the ground an odd aural accompanyment. Alis led them higher toward the ridge, and the ground was clearer, the snow blown by the force of the wind through the night.

"How far to this sea?" Dean looked at Castiel, tapping at the ice that stiffened the cloth over his face.

"About thirty miles from here, I think. We should be able to cross in the morning."

"How much time do we save?"

"About two hundred and fifty miles," Castiel said. "Five or six days riding."

"Good."

They mounted as they came off the last ridge. Temperate forest stretched out in front of them, black and grey against the crisp, virgin white snow, the branches of the trees interwoven in a vast pattern over the trunks, holding the snow like a roof in parts, glistening with the glaze of ice in the flat light.

* * *

_Sam walked restlessly around the room, looking at the piles of books stacked up on the floor, overflowing the bookcases, crowding the surface of every table. The fire was lit in the small fireplace, and the air smelled of dust, mouldy carpet and that ancient, indefinable scent of old paper._

"_Quit pacing, you're gonna wear a hole in the rug." Bobby looked up at him irritably from under the brim of the baseball cap._

"_What's taking him so long?" Sam turned around and threw himself onto the daybed that sat under the window, hearing the spatter of raindrops against the glass behind him._

"_Mebbe he got a flat." Bobby shrugged, looking back down at the book he was searching through. "Mebbe security was a bit tighter than he expected. It don't matter, boy. He'll get it. And he'll be back."_

_He heard the huff from the other side of the room and rolled his eyes. Sam looked at the stack of books on the end table beside him distractedly._

"_What're these?" He pulled one from the pile, holding the stack steady with one hand._

_Bobby kept reading. Sam opened the book, flicking through the pages, skimming over the text. He stopped at one chapter, brow creasing as he read down the page._

"_Bobby, what the hell are these?"_

_Bobby looked up and focussed on the book Sam was holding. Tredecim Hereses. "Black magic. Got 'em from a deceased estate a few months ago."_

_He got up and walked around the desk, taking the book from Sam's hands and looking at it briefly before shutting it and replacing it on the top of the pile. "Not easy reading, son. Give 'em a miss."_

"_Why do you have them?"_

"_Knowledge is power, Sam. You have to know what you're hunting before you can kill it." Bobby sat down again, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the pile. "We haven't seen magic like this practised for, oh, mebbe a thousand years. Doesn't mean that some asshole isn't going to try and resurrect the past, though."_

"_Have you read them?" Sam looked back at the books. "What's a living sacrifice?"_

_The older man leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Yeah, I've read 'em. Wish I hadn't." He reached for the bottle of whiskey that sat next to the lamp and poured himself a glass._

"_Living sacrifice is an old spell, pre-biblical old. Mebbe even pre-settlement old. I'm not sure about that." He looked at Sam. "Three children were needed, special children. Their lifeforce was drawn out of them, very slowly, to feed the entities the witch wanted control over. Thankfully, it's near impossible to perform."_

"_Why?"_

"_Needs a lot of stuff that no one can get." Bobby said shortly. "Like I said, Sam, it ain't easy reading."_

"_What kind of entities was the witch trying to control?"_

"_Different kinds, old gods, spirits, that sort of thing. The spell in that book claims to be able to control the Fates."_

"_The Fates? As in the three Greek sisters, Fates?" Sam's eyes widened slightly._

"_Yeah, them."_

"_Do you think the witch succeeded?"_

_Bobby gave him a sour look. "No. Find something else to do, Sam. I'm tryin' to work here. Dean'll be back soon."_

Sam woke abruptly, his eyes snapping open, the grey mists surrounding the camp disorienting against the dream's details of Bobby's study. More than just a dream, he thought, it was a memory. He'd forgotten about that pile of books until now, forgotten the one heavy tome of black magic.

The two Scythians guards were watching him and he ignored them, the chains that kept him tethered to the saddle, even in sleep, clinking softly as he reached for his fur jacket and pulled it around his shoulders.

Castiel had told him the prophecy. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the part about the control over the Fates. Three children in a chalice of fire? It was the same spell, it had to be. What was special about the three children? How could they be living in a chalice of fire? More importantly, how could it be reversed?

He looked at the guards and gestured to the fire. "This needs more wood. Get the water boiling."

One of them started to get to his feet, the hand of the other flashing out and yanking him back down again, the eyes blinking and filling with flat black from corner to corner, mouth stretching out in a shark-like grin.

Sam looked at them more closely, noticing that the skin of both guards was rough and scaly, the shadows around the eye sockets deep and spreading. The Scythians were dying, or were possibly already dead, the demons inside them were keeping them animated and giving them the semblance of life. He looked away, wondering how long they'd last before the rotting flesh started falling off them. In this cold, maybe a while longer. But once they got to the sea, and the salty moisture hit them …

* * *

"Vasiliĭ, Stone Well has been attacked."

The dark-haired leader looked up at Yuri, the messenger from Black Valley. "How many?"

"Fifty men, without their horses. They have surrounded the wall, but have not been able to get in, as yet."

Vasiliĭ nodded abruptly, getting up and following him down to the square. Ruane and Valenis exchanged a glance and rose as well, hurrying after them.

In the square, people were putting on armour, gathering weapons, saddling horses and leading them out. Vasiliĭ walked to the blacksmith's workshop, taking the long hauberk from Torgva wordlessly.

"Vasiliĭ."

He turned around and looked at the healer, who strode up to them.

"Fifty men? On foot? This is not an attack." Valenis looked from the leader to her husband.

"Not? Then what is it?" Vasiliĭ buckled the heavy sword belt around himself, settling the scabbard to lie flat.

"A diversion, I think."

Torgva looked at his wife, brows drawing down. "Diverting us from what, Valenis?"

"From a real attack, somewhere else in the valley." She looked from one to the other. "To draw away our warriors and leave our villages defenceless."

Vasiliĭ looked down at her. "What makes you so certain, Valenis?"

"It was only a matter of time before they found another way into the valley, Vasiliĭ. It is what I would do if I had a way to bring in an army slowly." She shrugged.

Torgva looked at the leader. "I think she is right."

Vasiliĭ looked out at the square, at the men and women getting ready for war. Beside him, Yuri stood waiting. He nodded, and turned to the messenger.

"Go back to Black Valley. Tell Kirill to get his machines up here." He frowned. "Take fifteen warriors with you, they should go to Stone Well. At each village, you will stop and tell them to send fifty warriors to us here, as quickly as they can."

Ruane listened to her father, her heart thudding against her ribs. Kirill had made three of the machines that Sam had discussed with him. Two of them threw long iron spears at the targets, the third could throw larger things, although she remembered Sam saying that it wasn't as efficient as a different type of machine. He hadn't had time to give Kirill the design for that one before they'd left.

Vasiliĭ turned back to Valenis. "There are two ways for horses to enter the valley, now that the passes are blocked."

She nodded. "They may have found the Throat. Or they could have come through the marshes to the east. That way is more treacherous. They would have lost men and horses. I think they have come from the north."

"Black River will be the first target then, yes?"

"I think so."

* * *

Elbek stood on the rampart of the wall surrounding the village, every sense prickling with unease. The night sky was dark, covered with cloud, and still with the smell of snow on the wind though the _buran_ had passed over them days before. Along the wall the torches shivered and blew this way and that, the moving flames creating shadow creatures along the walls and over the frozen mud of the square.

He looked around as Aleksei walked toward him. "Anything?"

Aleksei shook his head. "There's something out there. But they're hiding well."

Elbek nodded, eyes narrowed as he looked out into the darkness. He'd been excited to come to the village and help Geny with the armaments, with the training. He'd felt ready to face anything. Now, he wished that Dean was here, the older man's experience and darkly suspicious nature might have given him an idea as to what was going on.

The flat whap of a bowstring sent him automatically to the crushed gravel floor of the rampart, and he looked up, seeing Aleksei's shocked face as he fell slowly from the wall, the white feather fletching of the arrow in his throat bright against the dark armour he wore. Beneath the shelter of the parapet of the wall, Elbek's face twisted seeing his friend hit the hard ground below, then hardened.

"Sergei! Ana! Dmitry!" He screamed the names of the night guards and rolled to his knees, pulling his bow from his back and stringing it, dipping the arrowheads in the clay pot of oil that was kept below the torches and lighting the first. The arrow flew to the south and west, guided by memory, and he saw it hit above the last tree on the peak there. A torch flared in the darkness of the peak as the signal watcher ran to the tall pile of wood stacked there, arcing upward and falling onto the oil-soaked wood. As soon as the signal fire caught, Elbek turned back to the wall, firing arrow after arrow flaming into the woods that lay on the other side of the small stream. They hit the ground and the trunks of the trees, spreading pools of light around them, and the guards saw the gleaming reflections of eyes and the glint of armour, heard the sudden snorts of the horses concealed in the woods.

All dropped flat behind the parapet of the wall as volleys of arrowfire were returned, the arrows arcing over the walls and dropping into the square, hitting the stone and timber buildings within the walls, setting the thick thatch on fire in places.

In moments, the square was thick with people, warriors struggling into armour, gathering weapons, people throwing water and snow over the flaming arrows, putting out the fires, men and women running from the houses built around the square up to the stone keep, carrying children, food, weapons and clothing.

"How did they get into the valley?" Sergei lay on his side, his back against the wall. Elbek shrugged.

"The Throat, most likely." It didn't matter, he thought. They were in, and there were a lot of them, and if this was the northern army that Dean had spoken of, there would be a lot more of them coming slowly through the narrow defile.

* * *

The forest thinned out as they reached the edge of the Temerind. Dean looked at the humped white expanse in front of them, the shoreline rising on the other side. In the open, the cold felt like fire in his throat and chest, and he pulled the wrappings and thick fur collar of the cloak he wore higher around his mouth and cheeks.

They walked down the slight incline to the edge of the sea, the horses' legs leaving long ploughed furrows through the soft powder, the flakes rising and settling again as they passed through it.

"Don't really feel like falling through." Dean looked suspiciously at the ice, which had been blown clear of snow. "How sure are you that this'll hold us?"

"I am sure." Alis pointed north and east, across the expanse of white ice. Dean's gaze followed the direction and he saw a dozen dark shapes on the ice, bigger than the horses, widely branched antlers making identification easy.

"Elk." She slid off her horse, watching the small family group making its way across. "They're heavier than we are, and the water there is deeper. Are you reassured?"

He looked down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Yeah."

They led the horses out onto the ice, walking slowly, the surface rough where the water had frozen in wavelets and ripples and humps, snow still sitting in the hollows. Dean saw six smaller animals come out of the forest behind them, standing on the bank and watching the two groups as they crossed the ice. The lead animal's tail was held straight up.

"Are those wolves?" He frowned against the glare of the light reflecting from the ice and snow.

Alis turned and looked, nodding. "They'll follow the elk, not us. A lot of animals will cross the sea while it's frozen. They can see all around them, it's harder for the predators to take them when it's all open ground."

It took a little over an hour to walk to the western shore of the narrow strait, and they climbed up over the snow-covered sandy dunes, onto firmer ground with relief. The peninsula was joined to the mainland by a narrow isthmus on the north western side, fifty miles away by the straightest route. Another forty or fifty miles beyond that and they would reach the Dneiper, Castiel thought. It might be frozen over, in which case crossing it would be easy. If it was not, they would have to stay on the eastern shore until it narrowed enough to cross, probably somewhere around where Kiev would be, in their time. It had been a big river in their time, and that had been with much of the upper reaches dammed and controlled. He thought that now, with the vast catchment untouched, it would be much more difficult.

* * *

They rode until dark, making camp in a clearing in the forest, under the snow covered branches of the deciduous trees. Castiel and Alis stretched out the shelter hides, two big bison skins, stitched together, the heavy wool side up. It would keep the cold off them through the night, suspended between the trees a few feet from the ground. They tethered the horses on a line to one side of the camp instead of hobbling them, lighting two fires, one on either side of the clearing to make any predators, natural or unnatural, think twice about coming near.

"Cas, how far behind Sam are we?" Dean put the empty bowl aside and looked at the angel.

"Valenis said she saw them enter a flat land of lakes, the night before we left. I think it might be Finland." He looked up at Dean. "That's around fifteen or sixteen hundred miles north west of where we are now. It will take us another month to reach the northern coast, but I think that it's only about a week away from Sam."

He finished his meal and put the bowl aside, looking from Dean to Alis, and back. "The ritual will be on the winter solstice, December 21. Cesare cannot perform it any earlier. We'll get there in time, Dean."

"If nothing goes wrong." Dean looked at him. "If we can keep up the pace we're setting now."

"Yes."

"You getting your powers back, Cas?"

"Not that much." Castiel looked at the fire. "I cannot hear or touch Heaven, Dean."

Dean looked down, forcing the clamouring fear and doubt back behind the wall he'd constructed. "You want to take first watch? I'll take the last."

The angel nodded, glancing at Alis who shrugged. Dean crawled in under the shelter and rolled himself into the bedroll, closing his eyes. A moment later he heard Alis do the same.

"Alis?"

"Yes?"

"Can you see Sam in the water? Like you see the village?" He held his breath, waiting for her answer, not knowing what else he could do to get rid of the tension that was crippling him mentally.

"I don't know. I can see the village because of my mother, she feels the connection as well."

"Can you try? Please?"

"Now?"

"Yeah."

He heard her push back the furs and pull on her boots, draw her cloak around her, digging in her saddlebag for the small silver bowl she used if she had any troubles with natural pools. She slipped from the shelter to fill it, murmuring softly to Castiel as she passed him, hurrying back beneath the shelter when it was full.

He lay on his side, seeing one side of her face outlined by the firelight, the other in shadow as she bent over the bowl and stared down into the dark water, a small line appearing between her brows as she concentrated.

The images in the water were rapid and blurred, and Alis wondered at their accuracy. She saw stone buildings, overgrown, the great blocks pushed aside by the roots of trees. She saw two Scythian soldiers, their eyes flat and black, swinging their curved swords at something that was not within her view. She saw Sam, his back against a stone wall, eyes narrowed as he watched something approaching him, his hands gripping a short grey metal blade. She saw the sun, red on the horizon, its colour lurid as it set and darkness falling quickly over the scene. Then the images were gone, sinking to the bottom again and she looked up.

"I saw him. He is fighting, in a town to the north. Ruins, I think."

"Fighting what?" Dean rolled onto his elbow, staring at her.

"I couldn't see. He had a short sword, and darkness was falling."

Dean swore softly under his breath, dropping back to the ground and rolling away. So much for reassurance that his brother was still alright, he thought bitterly.

"Water doesn't always show the truth, Dean. And sometimes it is better not to see."

He was silent, his eyes closed. She tipped the water out and replaced the bowl in her saddle bag, pulling off her boots again and wriggling into her bedroll.

Even her mother couldn't always see the truth in the water. Fire was more accurate, but harder to control. She wished she'd spent a little more time on training with her mother in those things now, if only to give some peace to the man lying close by. The thought surprised her a little. Would she follow her mother's path?

"He is alive, Dean."

_Yeah_, he thought, _but for how much longer?_

* * *

Vasiliĭ stared at the signal fire blazing on the peak behind Lightning Rock, the village immediately to the north of them. Valenis had been right and the real attack was on Black River. He thought about timing and distances. They could leave as soon as the horses were ready, Torgva could follow, with the reinforcements sent by the villages and Kirill's machines. Ruane would be left to defend the village, but he thought she was capable, and she would have Valenis and the elders to advise her.

He would have to stop along the way, he thought. He would need the warriors from the other villages as he headed north. They could gather perhaps two hundred men and women. Geny was a crafty leader, and Elbek had had experience of warfare as well. He thought they would be able to hold the defences that Dean and Sam had devised until he could get there.

He turned abruptly and climbed down the thick ladder to the ground, looking around the square as he strode to his horse.

"_Gotovylyudi glubinnogo l'da_?"

The roar from the warriors in the square filled the space and echoed from the walls. The horses snorted and stamped their feet, and the gates were pulled open. Vasiliĭ looked down at his daughter, standing beside him.

"You must defend the village if we fail. Torgva will leave when Kirill and the other men and women arrive. Keep the people safe, daughter."

"I will."

She watched him ride out, the men and women falling in behind him, by twos and threes, passing out through the gate and heading north.

* * *

"Fire! Samyaza, we need fire!" Sam yelled across the gap to the Watcher. He spun around, swearing at the chains that slammed into his hip as he swung the short sword in tight circle. The wight popped up from behind him, pointed teeth dripping foul saliva as it leapt onto the sword point and Sam used the creature's weight and momentum to send it crashing into the broken rock to his left.

Two of the demons ran to the fallen trees and began breaking off branches, throwing them feverishly into the square behind them, as Samyaza slashed at the malformed and malicious creatures that surrounded him.

They'd stopped at the ruins near dusk, after struggling through shallow, brackish pools and deep bogs of the surrounding marshland since dawn. The land was saturated, water bubbling up through the soils and running over the ground, seemingly solid areas sinking under any weight, two more soldiers disappearing in the peat bogs when they'd gone too far out. The sucking noises as they'd been drawn below the ground had reminded Sam of an old film he'd seen about a creature that lived under a swamp and took its victims in just that way.

The Watcher had decided that they couldn't keep going with the horses, and the soldiers had transferred their supplies on to their own backs, dumping the saddles and bridles and setting the animals free. Sam had watched them making their way slowly back through the marshes to the forest beyond.

On foot, it had been easier to avoid the deep sucking pits, but their progress had been much slower and much harder. When they'd reached the higher ground and seen the ruins, it had seemed like a good place to rest and eat.

The wights had begun to emerge with the last red rays of the setting sun.

He hadn't seen them before, and had at first thought they were ghouls, feeding off any traveller unlucky enough to stop here. But a closer look had showed him that these creatures had never been human. Grey skinned, with overlong arms and too short legs, barrel torsos and no visible join between the flattened skulls and their long, sloping shoulders, they were surprisingly fast for their ungainly shape, and their skin was thick and hard, the soldiers' trilobate arrows bouncing off them, the curved Scythian scimitars barely scoring them.

It wasn't until one of the Scythians had dropped his sword and pulled out a long knife, the blade distinctively iron and sliding through the skin of the wight attacking him with ease that Sam had realised their error. The Scythians had swords of bronze, perhaps scrounged when the demons had been bound into them. Iron was poison to the wights, as it was to most monsters, and Samyaza had thrown him a short iron sword, and told the soldiers to use their knives, evening the odds against them.

One of the Scythians was pouring oil over the wood when two wights leapt onto him, bearing him down to the ground, his screams muffled as they covered him and began to feed. Sam shut out the dreadful bubbling noises that followed and struck the edge of the sword along the stones next to the wood, sparks flying up from the metal, landing in the oil, igniting the pile with an upward rush of air. Both wights pulled away, scrambling and scurrying back from the fierce light, the loud crackle, as the dried branches lit up. The second Scythian lit another fire, and the wights surrounding the Watcher ran for the shelter of the ruined buildings, Samyaza wiping blood and the sticky saliva from his armour with visible disgust.

"What are they?" He strode to the fire, the five remaining guards gathering between the light of the two bonfires, Sam backing awkwardly between them as the chains caught at his ankles and clanged around his knees.

"Wights, I think." He frowned into the surrounding darkness. They were mentioned heavily in Scandinavian folklore, along with trolls, but were cited as mainly cave-dwellers, a different variety inhabiting the caves of the sea-cliffs on the coast. Iron or steel of any kind defeated them, even a scratch would ensure a slow death by poisoning. Salt would ward off the land wights. Not so effective for the sea wights, for obvious reasons.

"Iron kills them?" Samyaza stood beside him.

Sam nodded. "Or steel."

The Watcher gave him a blank look and he shrugged. "There are a lot of these creatures in these lands, but they usually live in caves."

"What is a ruin but a series of man-made caves?" Samyaza turned his head, looking at the bonfires. "The fires will keep them away from us?"

"Yes. They hunt in the night. We shouldn't have any trouble in the morning."

"Good." He turned back to the Scythians and ordered them to get more wood, to light more fires in a circle around them, to keep them going until dawn. They would be leaving then.

Sam moved back, and sat down on an upthrust piece of broken paving stone. There were now seven of them, himself and the Watcher included. He wondered what they'd meet next, in this harsh land whose folklore had always been particularly bloodthirsty.


	34. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

* * *

Elbek leaned back against the cool stone walls as Kiya cleaned the blood from his face and smoothed the healing paste over the long shallow cut.

"You have to rest, Elbek, you have had no sleep for too long now."

"I'll rest in a while, Kiya." He straightened up and looked around. "How is everyone in here?"

"They are calm, they believe in the defences, in our warriors."

He shook his head slightly. The defences were holding, the demons had repeatedly tried to breach the walls and had repeatedly failed, unable to even get ladders up against them with the salt and iron resisting them. But two days they'd been fighting now, trying to make some sort of impression on the numbers that filled the forest around them, and failing, several buildings had burned to the ground, people were dead, and each hour that passed everyone grew more and more weary, made mistakes, some of which would be fatal.

He stood up, leaning forward to kiss her lightly. "There are too many of them, most of the time we are forced to take cover from the arrow fire, and sooner or later they will succeed in destroying our stores."

"The signal fires were lit. Vasiliĭ, Mikhail and the others will come to our aid."

"When they get here they will be facing an enemy that outnumbers them a hundred to one, Kiya." He went to the narrow slit in the stone wall, able to see a fraction of the grassy field that lay outside of the walls. Everywhere within that constricted view, he could see the Scythian horsemen.

Kiya watched him, seeing his exhaustion take his hope.

The sound of drums, deep and heavy and steady, came from the north and they both turned, eyes widening, running for the door, and the watchtower.

Elbek came up beside Geny, and looked past the high tower walls to the long sloping field that led to the forest, and beyond it to the narrow defile they called the Throat. It was filled from side to side with horsemen, more than he'd ever seen in his life, moving in formation down the snow covered incline, a man in the lead, taller than the rest, with copper-bright hair flowing over his shoulders and back.

"Armârôs." Elbek recognised the man from Lev's description. The soldiers kept coming out of the forest behind him, filling the slope, filling the field around the village, filling the woods to the east.

Geny looked at him. "How are we supposed to hold them off?"

* * *

"The Dneiper." Castiel sat on his horse looking at the long, slow river in front of them, thickly forested on both sides.

Alis nodded. "Mother River."

Dean looked at them. "And we have to cross it?" He looked at the far shore, at least two miles away, possibly further.

"Not here." Castiel turned his head, heading north. "We'll cross higher up."

Alis followed him without comment, and Dean looked at the river for a moment longer before wheeling his mare around and trotting after them. The snow lay deeply in the lowlands along the river banks, but was thinner in the forest, and they were making good time, at least.

For the next six days, their days fell into a routine of travelling and camping, a situation that Dean felt was completely surreal given that they were rushing to save his brother and the world from the resurrection of a genocidal angel. They couldn't go any faster, couldn't do any more, but he couldn't reconcile the predictability of their days with the urgency that filled him.

They camped each night an hour or so after sunset, setting up the shelter, gathering wood, cooking their food, repairing their gear, sharpening their weapons, oiling the saddles, their boots and gloves. Castiel took the first watch, till midnight. Alis took the second from midnight to four. Dean took the last watch, from four till dawn. At dawn they ate, packed up the camp and were on their way again. Through the day they rode at a steady trot mostly, stopping for fifteen minutes in every hour to rest the horses, to hunt for game in snowy fields and forests, to eat. Alis talked casually of the animals they saw, their habits and their tracks, Castiel spoke occasionally of the history of the land, or the geography of what they would have to cross next. And always, to their left, the huge river rolled by them, showing no signs of getting any narrower, any easier to cross.

As the days passed, he found it was easier to keep his worry about Sam locked down, found it easier to listen to the conversations, to absorb the information, to keep his thought and feeling separated and although the urgency remained, the tension that had accompanied it was lessened. At least, it was easier to keep his feelings about his brother separated. He hadn't asked her to look in the water again. It was better not knowing.

He stretched out, waking a few minutes before his watch, looking at the low flames of the fire. The last time he'd done this, been in this kind of steady day-to-day life, he'd been fourteen. Him and Sam, staying with Bobby for two months, he remembered, when his father had been hunting somewhere with Jim. That had been in the summer, and Bobby had taught them to track through the woods. He shook his head slightly, rolling over and sitting up.

Alis turned her head at the sound, relaxing as she saw him pull on his boots, buckle the belt around his hips.

"Anything out there?" He came and sat beside her, pulling the heavy fur around his shoulders.

"No, it is quiet tonight. Not even the wolves have been around." She glanced behind them at the fire. "Do you want some tea?"

"Yeah, thanks." He shifted as she got up, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, his back to the fire.

A moment later he heard her soft footfall and looked up, taking the warm cup she offered.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Better." He sipped the hot liquid, rotating it reflexively. "It doesn't hurt to move now."

"Good. We should try to get fresh meat today."

He watched her walk to the shelter, pull off her boots and the heavy fur cloak and spread it over her bedroll, wriggle under it. She had been doing most of the hunting, because he hadn't been able to draw his bow back far enough to get either power or accuracy. He flexed the shoulder again now, feeling the stiffness and a soreness under the joint, but no pain. It would stand some work, might even help if he didn't overdo it.

He settled himself comfortably on the log, letting himself become still. In this watch, these darkest hours before dawn, he could think clearly, and he'd come to welcome the quiet hours with no distractions, his body and senses remaining alert, while his mind turned over the problems, old and new, looking at them, studying them, analysing them.

He tried not to think about the prophecy. Until they reached the sorcerer's island, there was nothing that could be done about it, and he'd already exhausted all the possible literal meanings he could think of to explain the impossibilities of becoming a dragon, of magic swords and imprisoned heavenly children and his brother being a doorway to another plane. It was a waste of time and energy to keep going over those passages, trying to find meanings in them without some new information.

Cas had said that in this world, magic was stronger, more easily accessible because people still used their imaginations. Sympathetic magic, to bring luck to their hunting. Symbolic magic to avert disaster and appease the gods who controlled the weather and the seasons of the earth. Psychic power to see things that happened in distant places, to draw energy in the body and from the elements together for healing. The angel had told him that people had those powers, locked away and latent in the largely unused part of their brains, even in their time, but in the modern world, there were too many distractions, too many diversions for them ever to become active. Magic required concentration.

He wasn't sure he bought it all, but at some level, it made sense to him. The people here lived very close to the natural world. There was little to distract them, to divert them. Entertainment came strictly from their own imaginations, their own creativity. He wondered if, under these circumstances, magic was going to make it possible to defeat the archangel.

* * *

Sam could smell the scent of the sea, rising up over the hills in front of them on the fresh north-easterly wind and blowing over them as they descended through the low, scrubby vegetation, much higher grey peaks rising to either side of them, capped with snow.

The land was silent and dark, cloud spread overhead cutting the sunlight, the colours drab, deep green and grey and black. He slowed down as the slope steepened, and they came around the bend in the narrow valley, the deep still water of the fjord reflecting the solemn mountains above.

He couldn't see any signs of a settlement along the flatter fields and forest that lay against the deep inlet's sides, and he wondered if Samyaza's travel arrangements had fallen apart.

The Watcher walked with a long, swinging stride in front of him. Cesare hadn't returned to the man's body for several days now, but Samyaza hadn't quite been himself, either. The five remaining Scythians flanked them both, bows strung and arrows nocked on the strings, watching to either side for any signs that they weren't alone in the silent valley.

They crossed the stream that zigzagged across the open ground, and the valley twisted further to the right, more of the deep water coming into view. Sam saw the Watcher's shoulders drop suddenly, as they approached the shore and saw the longboat, tucked in against the natural rocky quay.

He turned to look over his shoulder at Sam, smiling slightly. "Last leg. Weather permitting, this should only take six or seven days."

Weather permitting, Sam thought sourly. Their destination was not Iceland, then. That must be closer to a thousand miles. He looked at the men sitting on the boat. There were eight of them, tall, heavily muscled, their long hair loose down their backs, held back from their faces in narrow plaits, red and gold and black hair, their eyes the blues and greys of the Aesir.

So much for monsters taking care of his guards, he thought with an inward sigh, following the Watcher down over the crushed stone beach and onto the rock shelf, to the boat.

"Thought you might have gone, Ásbjorn." Samyaza said to the big man whose hand rested lightly on the carved tiller.

"We thought we would have to, but the storm veered south," Ásbjorn answered with a shrug, his eyes turning to Sam as he walked to the side of the ship, dropping to the chains that held his wrists and ankles.

"Will the weather hold for us?" Samyaza kept his gaze on the big man's face, ignoring the obvious curiosity.

Ásbjorn laughed, the sound booming out and echoing over the water, the crew joining in. "Ask Ægir, we do not know the will of the gods over sea and wind and storm."

Sam saw the Watcher's eyes narrow slightly and realised that these men were not possessed. Samyaza had hired them, obviously, but they were not under his control. He felt a slight surge of hope trickle through him.

"Can we leave now?"

"No. We will wait until near sunset. The currents will turn then, and speed us on our way." Ásbjorn looked at the Scythians, the blue eyes becoming thoughtful. "Your men do not look well, ørlendr."

Samyaza glanced over his shoulder, seeing the horsemen as the Norseman did, their skin grey and shadowy where it was beginning to slip from the muscle underneath.

"They will last the journey, Ásbjorn. Other than that, you do not need to know." His voice was curt, and the flame-haired man smiled and shrugged.

* * *

The fjord was dim and filled with deep blue shadows when the boat slipped her moorings and the men ran out the oars, Ásbjorn guiding the sixty foot long vessel down the centre of the deep water. The tides had turned and the whirlpools and vortexes that made the entrance to the fjord dangerous at certain times had vanished. Sam leaned against the thick bulwark, seeing the rills against the smooth water, the tidal current now curving outward from the coast, carrying the ship out and away from the rocks at the base of the cliffs, propelling them toward the open sea.

The breeze freshened as they cleared the coast, and the men unfurled the massive mainsail, the tightly woven fabric bellying out as it caught the breeze, the mast and hull creaking and groaning softly as the sheets were tied off and the sail tautened, transferring the pressure to the mast, to the keel and lifting the boat. They stowed the long oars and tidied the cordage, moving easily around the ship, used to the gentle roll and pitch as she pushed into the swells. Ásbjorn looked up at the sail, and leaned back against the long tiller, his face settling into lines of contentment as his ship barrelled along comfortably.

Sam looked at the sky, still louring and dark with cloud, and wondered how the Norseman was navigating, without view of the stars. He looked back at their wake, running perfectly straight behind them to the coast. There must be some way, he thought absently.

Samyaza came to stand beside him, the Watcher staring over the sea. "_And God said, let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so_." He looked at Sam. "Have you ever seen the waters of the earth, Sam? They cover most of this small planet. Most men have no idea of how much water there really is."

Sam looked at him. "Yes, I've seen it."

The Watcher shook his head. "God gave the planet to mankind, to live and multiply, to learn to become more than any other of his creations. Lucifer hated them, could never see the beauty or the promise in them. The war in Heaven … it went on for a long time, Sam. A long, long time."

"How can Lucifer be released before his time, Samyaza? Before the proper time of punishment has ended?"

The Watcher shrugged. "I do not know, Sam. Cesare has found a way, through changing the lines of Destiny, but I do not know how he found it, or why it works against God's will, his Word."

"A back door, maybe," Sam mused, mostly to himself. There were always loopholes for those prepared to search for them. Four years of pre-law had made that clear to him.

* * *

Vasiliĭ lay on his stomach, concealed within the stands of tall bracken that swathed the forest floor, staring down at the field in front of him, his heart pounding against his chest. So many of them, he thought. Already the ground was churned over, the snow ground into the mud and the mud frozen and broken apart again. The walls of Black River were still intact, although from this vantage point he could see that many buildings inside had been destroyed. He hoped that Elbek and Geny had been able to move their winter stores inside the keep before they'd lost too much.

Beside him, silently watching the army, Torgva's eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. The machines that Kirill had built could do some serious damage here. They would need to be placed to their best advantage, however. And they needed several attacks, each one undermining the army, confusing it so that they could get more people into the village, to let the defenders get rest.

They moved slowly backwards, inching their way through the undergrowth to prevent any movement of the plants that sheltered them. When they were safely below the crest of the hill, both men rolled to their feet and made their way down through the forest and across the river.

Kirill stood beside the large machine, rubbing quantities of fat into the axles. He turned and straightened as he saw them approaching.

"Well? Can we get to them?"

"How far will that thing throw, Kirill?" Torgva stared at the heavy timbers, the wheels and ropes that criss-crossed the underside of the heavy beams.

"I have only run a few trials, Torgva, but depending on the weight of the object, it will reach," he turned, looking around them, "from here to the line of trees there." He pointed at the forest, five hundreds yards distant.

Torgva nodded. "And from a hill? Will it go further?"

Vasiliĭ looked at him, seeing the shape of his thoughts. He turned to Kirill.

"Yes, maybe. The distance will be increased perhaps half again from a reasonable height."

Vasiliĭ looked at the machine. "To the south of the village, in front of the signal peak, there is a well-forested hillside. We can defend it, the slope rises steeply on the river side." He turned back to Kirill. "Can we get this thing up there?"

"If you give me enough horses, yes. It needs a clear area to fire, Vasiliĭ."

"That is not a difficulty."

"The army will see us if we take too long to do this, Vasiliĭ." Torgva rubbed his hand over his beard, thinking through all the possibilities for the attack.

Vasiliĭ nodded. "We clear the trail to the top now. Tonight we take it up. Those bombs that Dean made. They are not too heavy for the machine?"

Kirill started to smile. "No, they are very light, they will go a long way."

"Lev knows how to set the fuses," he stumbled over the unfamiliar word slightly. "If we can panic the horses, panic the men, it will give us enough time to break the lines, get a hundred men into the village, with the other machines."

Torgva nodded. "Those are more accurate."

"We need to make it impossible for them to stay close to the village, make them withdraw beyond the reach of the machines."

Kirill nodded. "How many of the bombs do you have?"

"Ten." Vasiliĭ wished that they had more. Torgva knew how to make the gunpowder and the casings but being able to move around to collect the guano, the sulphur from the volcano, that was not possible now. He thought that it would be enough, to reinforce Black River and convince the army that they would not be able to break through.

"If this works, it will be a feat worth telling, Vasiliĭ." Kirill grinned at the leader.

"If it works, it will not be our feat, my friend." He turned away, gesturing to the warriors who waited for their orders.

Torgva looked at Kirill. "How many horses do you need?"

* * *

Dean leaned against the tree trunk, his head turned slightly, Alis in the corner of his vision several trees away. The young bull was oblivious to them, pulling the leaves from a shrub, ears flicking back and forth, but not really worried about being disturbed.

He caught the movement as she rose slowly behind her own tree and began to inch his way up the trunk, fingers closing around the smooth shaft of the arrow nocked onto the string, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of remaining completely silent.

He saw Alis nod and they stepped out from behind the trunks at the same time, the elk lifting its head, nostrils flaring as the arrows hit its body together, grey fletching standing out against the thick dun coat behind the shoulder, the heads buried in the great muscled walls of its heart. It dropped in a staggered slow motion to the ground, forequarter falling first, then the hindquarters crumpling. They walked to the body, Alis pulling the long knife from the sheath at her hip, as Dean pulled both arrows from the animal.

The blood was shockingly bright against the snow, congealing almost instantly with the cold, and he lifted the long coil of rope from over his shoulder, tying the hindlegs together and throwing the free end over a thick branch a few feet away as Alis stepped back.

Dean hauled the dead elk across the ground, the rear end lifting as he started to take the full weight up. Alis stood close to him, her hands interleaved between his on the rope, both pulling together to lift the animal from the ground and into the air. His shoulder was twingeing a little at the weight; damned animal weighed near five hundred pounds, he thought as the shoulders then head came up.

"How high?" he grunted at her as the hooves got close to the bottom of the branch.

"That will do." Alis looked up and took the tail of the rope, wrapping it several times around the base of the tree and tying it off. "You can let go."

He loosened his grip, seeing the rope stretch slightly as the weight took all the slack out, then stop. The blood was running freely from the opened throat and he looked around the silent forest, wondering how long it would take the predators to show up.

"How much are we taking?"

"As much as we can carry. It will freeze and stay frozen now, unless we are very unlucky. It will feed us for a long time."

He watched her as she stropped the blade of her knife over the leather strap that was looped through her belt for that purpose. Everything she did had an economical grace that he sometimes found compelling. Shunting the feeling aside, he looked back up at the bull. The animal was young, he thought, studying the barely branched antlers. Any older and he didn't think they'd have gotten it into the tree.

"I'll get the horses." He turned away, heading down the forest trail to the clearing where they'd left them.

* * *

Alis watched the blood running out as she sharpened the edge to razor keenness. It would have been better to let the animal hang for a day or more but they didn't have that much time, and the opportunity to get enough meat to keep going for so long couldn't be ignored. The wolves and the scavengers would eat whatever they couldn't take, she reminded herself. Nothing would be wasted. She had thanked the animal for giving up its life for them, and the gods for allowing the hunt to be quick and clean.

* * *

Dean walked fast through the trees, the bow in one hand with an arrow already nocked onto the string. He'd gotten faster at getting his arrows onto the string and firing. with practise, but it was easier to carry the bow loaded if he really had to move fast. He moved his shoulder around, feeling a faint throbbing in the muscle that lay under the hole in it. He wasn't certain that the ache was no more than the effort of lifting the weight of the young elk, not any damage. _It'll either get better or worse_, he thought.

The two horses stood patiently in the small clearing, looking up at him when he walked up to them. He slipped the reins free and mounted his, turning her and leading the dun, following the trail back at a steady jog.

They'd done some hunting with Bobby, when they were kids. Mostly rabbit, some duck. Bobby hadn't been able to convince either of them to kill deer. There'd been no need for the meat and killing for the sake of killing hadn't appealed to either brother. He smiled slightly, remembering the old man's sour expression when he'd realised that they were missing the animals deliberately.

The horses snorted softly at the smell of blood as he rode into the snowy clearing. He slid off and tied them, looking over as Alis worked the hide off the hindlegs and down off the back. She'd stripped off the close fitting hide jacket and all but one of the homespun shirts under that, her arms bloodied almost to the shoulder, a bright smear over one cheek.

The animal had been gutted, the internal cavity empty and clean. He walked toward her, ready to offer some help, when she looked over at him and shook her head.

"It is easier if I only have to worry about where my hands are, not yours as well." She glanced around the perimeter of the clearing. "Keep watch. I will need your help soon to cut loose the meat."

He nodded, and moved behind her, watching the trees, trying to hear over the tearing and slight sucking noises behind him as she cut and pulled the hide free, the knife slicing through the thin white membrane that attached skin to the muscle.

He glanced back at the sound of the pieces of the heavy hide hitting the ground, hearing her loud exhale as she straightened up. She cleaned the knife in the snow and started sharpening it again. Cutting through hair and hide invariably blunted the edge more quickly than through the meat.

"How are we carrying it exactly?" He looked at the skinned carcass.

"We will cut it up, wrap it in the pieces of hide." She shrugged slightly as she tested the edge against her thumb and moved back to the elk. "It will keep it clean."

* * *

It took nearly another hour to cut enough meat free to fill the hide, and Dean lifted the pieces of skin, holding them together, wrapped around the meat as she bound the bundles tightly. There were four large bags when they were done, and she tied them together, the two of them lifting the heavy bags over the front of the saddle bows. Dean untied the horses, leading them to the edge of the trail, and she released the rope, the remains dropping to the ground. She freed the hindlegs and coiled the rope up slowly.

Dean looked at her, seeing the tremor in her muscles from the sustained effort of the work.

"You okay?"

She looked up at him with a weary smile. "Yes, it is tiring, to have to go fast like that." She dropped to her knees in a clean patch of snow, picking up handfuls and rubbing them over her arms, washing the dried blood from her arms and hands. She wiped her hands over her face, and stood up, pulling on the thicker shirts, the jacket and the fur cloak.

He stood behind her as she leaned briefly against her horse, moving around to her side and offering his hands to give her a boost into the saddle. She looked down at them with a slight smile and put her knee into them, bracing herself and swinging her right leg over as he straightened up.

He looked up at her. "Next time, show me what to do, and I'll do it."

The laughter in her eyes was gentle. "Yes, when we are not in such a hurry, I will show you."

* * *

Castiel looked up as they rode back into the camp. He'd ridden a little way along the river while they'd been gone, seeing the narrowing of the banks only a few miles ahead. They could cross over in the morning, and they would be barely a day's ride from the marshes.

The roasting meat smelled delicious, filling the campsite as Dean hung the remaining hide bags high in the trees, out of the reach of most predators, to freeze in the night. They ate as much as they could fit in, the rich grease dripping from their chins. The meat and fat was an easily absorbed source of energy, essential to resisting the cold, to having the strength to keep up the physical demands of the travelling. Dean looked at the chunk of meat in his hand, wondering how Sam would have felt about a meat-only meal. He stretched back against his saddle, licking his fingers, as he finished the last of it.

"Cas and I will take the watches tonight, Alis. You should get a full night's sleep."

She looked at him in surprise. "I can take my watch, Dean."

He shook his head. "You did all the work today. You deserve a night off."

"If you insist," she said, shrugging. A full night's sleep would be a luxury.

* * *

Alis woke at midnight, then remembered she had the night off. She rolled over in her bedroll, closing her eyes again, listening to the snap and crackle of the fire. Her eyes opened again as she heard the soft grunt of pain.

Dean winced as he shifted his position. The shoulder had been fine until he'd hauled the hide bags into the tree, he thought, moving it slowly as the ache spread through the muscle.

Alis sat up, turning around to look at him, her voice quiet. "What is it?"

He looked around at her. "I think I just twisted it the wrong way when I getting the bags into the tree." He lifted the arm, feeling the point where the muscle hurt. "You got any of that paste here?"

She pushed the fur cover back and went to her saddle bag, crouching beside it and pulling out the small clay pot. The mixture helped deep muscle injury, any injury where the skin was unbroken.

"Where is the pain?" she spoke softly, walking over to him.

"Doesn't feel like it's all way through, mostly this side." He looked down at the front of the shoulder, over the pectoral muscle where the arrow had entered. Alis looked down at the arm.

"Can you lift your arm, without it hurting?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Strain in the muscle lower down then." She nodded, gesturing to the fire. "Get close to the fire."

Dean sat closer to the fire, pulling off the leather and plate cuirass, woollen surcoat, then the thick shirt under that. Even next to the warmth of the fire, the cold reached for him, and he turned slightly, moving his bare skin closer to the flames. Alis put another couple of logs on, and drew the edge of the homespun shirt he'd left on down far enough to see the wound and just below it.

She put the jar close to the fire to soften and warm it, her fingers gently probing the muscle that he'd said was painful. She could feel it, a slight thickening of the muscle under the wound.

"It is a little swollen." She reached for the clay pot and scooped the paste out with her fingers. "Did you have to pull suddenly?"

He thought about lifting the bags up and remembered the rope slipping through his hands, he'd tightened his grip and yanked down then. "Yeah, it slipped a little and I overcompensated."

She nodded, and smoothed the paste over the skin, her fingertips moving in slow circles as she worked outward, then back in. "Is there any pain in the back, behind the shoulder?"

"No."

He sat completely still, watching her fingers move over the muscle, her scent mingling with the sweet smell of the paste, filling his head, his awareness stretched out. The world had drawn in around them, narrowed down to the half-circle of firelight that enclosed them. The circling of her fingers slowed further, and subtly, the touch changed, from firm massage to a softer caress. He looked at her face, hearing the increasing beat of his heart in his ears, drowning out the other sounds, as she watched her fingers moving over his skin.

"Alis …"

She lifted her head, and his breath caught in his throat, his heartbeat stuttering uncomfortably as their eyes met. The camp around them was gone, time telescoping out, the seconds hesitating too long. Her face was soft, vulnerable, and the aching desire he felt flooding through his body was mirrored in her eyes. He lifted his hand, his fingertips touching the curve of her cheek, trailing down to the line of her jaw and he leaned closer to her, her breath fluttering against his lips, his gaze holding hers.

She blinked, shifting backward abruptly, turning away from him, her breath ragged in her throat. Her eyes were tightly shut as she gestured to the pot by the fire, her voice low. "You can do this, work it into the muscle, whenever it feels sore."

He dragged in a deep breath, watching as she rolled to her feet, moving quickly back to the shelter, to her bedroll, pulling off her boots and sliding into it without looking back at him.

_What the hell had just happened?_


	35. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

* * *

"You are cold?"

Sam looked up at the deep voice, seeing Ásbjorn standing next to him. He was hunched into the narrow space between two of the thick half-log thwarts that sat amidships, out of the downdraught of the sail, but still caught periodically by the spray as the side of the ship hit a wave, the chill water soaking him, exacerbated by the wind that had freshened in the last few hours and was blowing from the quarter at a steady twenty five knots now.

"Just wet." Sam shrugged, looking at the soaked leather and homespun and furs covering the other man. The Norsemen were tall, for this time, but still several inches under his own height, something that had raised their brows when he boarded the ship. They were heavier though, with broad shoulders and deep chests, muscle built over a lifetime of hard, physical labour and scarred from the battles they'd fought along the long coastline and on journeyings into the inland waterways. Ásbjorn moved around his ship like a cat, his balance and reflexes automatic with each roll of the vessel over the sea, anticipating the movements with ease.

He reached past Sam to a deep wooden chest that stood behind the mast, lifting the lid and taking out a tightly woven length of cloth, waxed and smooth. As he closed the lid, he spoke quietly to Sam.

"It is not our way to see a man chained like a dog. If anything should happen to the ship, you will be not be dragged down to drown, I will see to it."

Sam kept his eyes on the cloth in his lap. "Thank you."

Ásbjorn straightened up, and gestured to the cloth. "That will keep the water off. And the wind out."

He turned away and returned to the tiller, glancing at the Scythian soldiers as he passed them, his nose wrinkling a little in distaste. As Sam had thought, the constant moisture was accelerating their decomposition and they stood downwind of the crew, lined up along the leeward bulwark, no more happy to be there than the Norsemen were to have them there.

Sam unfolded the cloth and wrapped it around himself. The wind was cut out immediately, and he could feel his body heat returning. The spray from another wave slapped against the outside, running off the cloth. He pulled it further around, angling himself away from wind and water and closed his eyes. An unexpected ally, that was good.

He listened to the wind's low moan through the tight rope rigging and the rush of foam under him, the creak and groan of the hull timbers, and the low laughter of the men further aft, feeling his body warming, tiredness creeping in. Sleep was a welcome respite and he gave himself up to it.

* * *

Lev stared down at the round casings, counting off the feet of the fuse as Dean had taught him. They wanted the casings to land on the ground before they went off, not to explode in the middle of the air. He had to get this right or they would be wasting their most valuable weapon.

Behind him, the catapult had been moved into position, Kirill calculating the distance and trajectory several times before he was satisfied that the round metal objects would land where he wanted them to. He missed Sam and the way the younger man's mind could do this almost without effort. Twelve years of mathematics, Sam had told him wryly, knowing that the word had no meaning to the smith, but the concept of calculation, of measurement and accuracy would. The machine was slightly behind the top of the rise, hidden from view from the ground, but with the additional height, more than capable of reaching the target.

Torgva waited in the thick forest a half mile away, with Vasiliĭ and their small army. He would lead a hundred of the warriors straight to the gates, and take Kirill's other machine as well, as Vasiliĭ led the others to flank and drive the Watcher's horsemen from the field, harrying them from the forest edge while the bombs exploded around them. It was a good plan, he thought. The horses would panic, the men as well, even the demons inside them would panic at the noise and the fire, not being able to see the extent of the threat in the darkness.

Kirill glanced over at Lev, watching him using his forearm as a standard measure for each length of fuse. He would have to ask the hunter to tell him about this, he thought. If they were successful and they both made it out of the battle alive.

"Are they ready?"

Lev looked up and nodded, carrying the first of the casings to the metal cup that had been cranked down at the rear of the machine, setting it inside and unwinding the length of fuse.

Kirill nodded to his apprentice and the young man opened the small clay box, positioning the red ember it held to the free end of the fuse. The fuse lit immediately, sparking and crackling as the flame consumed it. Kirill released the lever and began winding the heavy beam back down to its firing position immediately, his head turning to watch the casing lift into the air, the fuse still flaming, in a flat arc over the river and into the field in front of the village. Lev lifted the second casing into the cup as the bomb exploded, sending the demon army into chaos, killing at least two of the horses and riders who had been close to where it landed, the shrapnel from the casing moving fast in the outward blast, penetrating everything it encountered.

After the third explosion, Vasiliĭ led the warriors through the trees, screaming their battle cries and galloping toward the Scythians, the archers firing from their horses as they got close to the confused soldiers. The army turned from the attack, wheeling away together. The darkness, the noise and bone-jarring shock of the explosions, the flaming arrows flying through the air convincing them that a much greater enemy had arrived. Nearly a quarter of the men were on the ground, thrown or falling from their horses as the casings hit the earth around them, the concussive waves and showers of dirt sending the animals into a frenzy. They pulled their swords free, demon eyes black, to find that the warriors that galloped and ran to them were carrying black swords, and a single killing stroke lit up the bodies in red and gold, the demons locked inside dying.

Torgva nodded to his warriors as the eighth casing fell, and they rode out from between the trees, crossing the river at a hand gallop, the ballista bouncing and rumbling behind the horses drawing it.

On the palisade wall, Geny and Elbek stood and watched as Dean's bombs fell onto the army from the night sky, and hundreds of warriors appeared from the river, yelling and chasing the fleeing troops up the northern slope. Geny turned as he heard the rumble of heavy wheels on the frozen track, recognising the round shield of the leader.

"Open the gates! Open the gates!" He shouted to the gatekeepers, running toward the ladder that led down to the square. Elbek followed him, bow raised to provide covering fire if any of the Watcher's army turned back. None did, and he watched Alis' father riding under him, through the gates with a hundred men and women, and the war machine behind them.

* * *

Vasiliĭ watched the riders, loose horses and men running north, and turned his horse, cantering across the churned and littered ground, the men and women under his command turning and following as he passed them. He didn't see the Scythian rising from the ground until his horse was on him, the man's hands gripping his cloak and belt and pulling him down as his horse snorted and leapt aside.

He rolled free of the grip, pulling his long sword from its scabbard, shaking his head slightly to clear it, watching the man's flat black eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, a hundred small fires over the field reflecting in them.

The soldier was about his own size and weight, and he watched his hands, the short akinake held in one, a longer, curving bronze sword held in the other. Two-handed fighter, not from the steppes but further west, he thought. He pushed aside thought and focussed on the man, glancing from side to side for a shield as he backed slowly toward the forest.

When the attack came, it was fast, and he felt the akinake slice through the leather of his pauldron, barely able to keep his fingers around the hilt of his sword as pain sheeted down the arm. He twisted away from the follow up move, the longer sword stabbing past him, and swung his leg out, the heel driving into the side of the Scythian's knee and bringing him down. Vasiliĭ clenched his jaw as he tightened his grip on his sword, swinging it around in a flat arc but the Scythian had anticipated the move and was already gone, rolling backward under the sword and coming to his feet a few feet away.

Vasiliĭ stared at him, flexing his fingers around the hilt. There was numbness in the arm, and two of the fingers were no longer responding, the cut had taken out some nerves. The demon stared back at him, watching the older man's wariness, seeing the hesitation to move in for an attack and it smiled.

* * *

The river had narrowed as the level of the ground dropped in a series of broad, flat steps that had created several passable fords. It was no more than sixty feet to the other side here. Dean watched as Alis led her horse across the topmost ford, the broad rocky shelf only two or three feet below the surface, its underwater surface firm and scoured, the rough rock providing a good grip. When she climbed the far bank, she turned and waved, then led the mare up the narrow trail and into the forest that crowded the other side.

Castiel glanced at him and waded into the water, feeling the strength of the current against his legs, and moving slowly along the path Alis had taken. When the angel was halfway across, Dean followed him, swearing at the frigidity of the water as it rose quickly up his legs, shunting aside the discomfort and concentrating on reaching the other side.

The horses bounded up the bank, following Alis along the trail. She'd already lit a small fire where the trees opened a little off the track, and was rubbing down her legs by its warmth, her wet boots and pants spread over a dry branch to one side, spare clothing next to her. She looked up and pulled on the dry pants and boots as they tied the horses and walked to the fire, stripping off the wet clothing before it could freeze on them, dragging on spares from their saddlebags.

"That wasn't as bad as I'd feared." Castiel looked over the fire at Alis.

She nodded, putting the small iron pot over the flames. "My mother said it was a safe place to cross. Further up the river the water is much faster." She put a handful of the restorative tea into the pot. "We will reach the marsh just before nightfall, I think."

"Do we go straight in?" Castiel asked.

Alis shook her head. "No, we will make camp in the forest and go in by day. We will have to spend two nights in the marsh, it is very wide, but the less hours of darkness we are in there, the better our chances of surviving it."

Dean wrung out his wet pants and set them close to the fire to dry. "Awesome. What's in the marsh that's going to try and kill us?"

Alis looked over at him. "Whisperers."

He remembered her description of the creatures from their first conversation in the hall. _Crocottas_. He sat down, and rubbed his hand over his face. _Just what they needed_.

They drank the hot tea when it was ready, and packed away their mostly dried clothing, mounting and heading due north for the marshes after the short rest. Alis rode point, Castiel in the middle and Dean brought up the rear, the horses used to their places, leaving a length's gap between themselves and rarely needing to be pushed or slowed on the trail.

Dean watched the horses in front of him, his senses alert to the sounds of the forest around them, his mind fully engaged in trying to determine what had happened the previous night.

When dawn had come that morning, Alis had risen without showing the slightest sign that anything had happened between them in the night. She had made the tea, and the porridge, passed him the food, spoken to both himself and Castiel without any hint that there was anything wrong. Except, he thought, that the small measure of trust, of companionship, that had been building very slowly since they'd left the village, had gone.

He hadn't been mistaken, going over the memory of that drawn out moment again. It had been desire he'd seen in her eyes. He didn't know what had gone wrong, in less than the space of an indrawn breath, but he was positive that he wasn't mistaken about that. He felt a return of the frustration he'd felt then. What had he done wrong?

She'd been with two of the men in the village in the ten months he'd known her. He didn't think it had been fear or a lack of knowledge of what had been about to happen that had driven the reaction. Because he was a foreigner? A stranger? It was possible, he guessed, but that hadn't seemed like a problem for the women of the village on midsummer's eve. And it hadn't been the first time he'd seen the response from her when they'd been close, he remembered. In the storeroom, on the ladder, there had been that same feeling, as if time had slowed down, standing close to each other, that same awareness, before she'd looked away and hurried out of the room.

He shook his head slightly. Was it him? He couldn't remember doing anything or saying anything, not even thinking anything, just feeling. And he knew, he _knew_, that she'd felt the same. He'd had enough experience to know what a woman was feeling, to know when it was mutual, and when it wasn't.

Whatever it was, whatever he'd done or she'd felt, it was done. He pushed the memories away, and looked around, focussing his concentration on the woods to either side, on the dangers of the marsh in front of them, on whatever else he could think of.

* * *

"Sam, wake up."

Fingers gripped his shoulder, shaking him. For a moment, caught between deep sleep and waking, Sam thought he was in the car, scrunched into the corner between the door and the seat, warm and sleeping, that it was his asshole brother trying to wake him.

"Sleeping, Dean," he slurred with a soft resentment. "Leave m'alone."

The deep chuckle beside him brought him back to consciousness immediately.

"Ah, yes, Dean. Your brother." The voice was deeper than Samyaza's, the Watcher's smooth baritone deepened to bass, the inflexions archaic, formal. _Cesare_.

Sam lifted his head, opening his eyes and looking into the red-tinted silver irises of the possessed fallen angel.

"He'll be coming for me, you know." Sam stared into the mage's eyes. "And you don't want to be in his way when he's pissed."

Samyaza smiled. "You have a lot of faith in him, that's touching. I'm surprised actually, considering that he hasn't really protected you from anything that's happened in your life." The Watcher glanced past him briefly. "Your father didn't manage to either."

"You don't know anything about my family." Fear rose up his throat, hot and acid and foul-tasting.

"Oh, Sam, I do. I do now." The eyes gleamed red. "I know a lot about you now. I know that your brother failed to stop you from being killed, and had to make a deal with a minion of the underworld to bring you back. I know that he failed to convince you that a demon was leading you to release the devil from his prison."

"Those weren't his mistakes, Cesare, they were mine." Sam's hands lifted involuntary and they both looked down at the chains for a moment as they clanked against the thwart.

The Watcher's smile broadened. "And yes, you. You've failed him time after time as well, haven't you? Thinking that you were strong enough to kill a demon, thinking you were clever enough to fool him, thinking that your brother wasn't as strong as you were, couldn't handle the truth, couldn't handle your strength. I'm surprised he's even following you, he would be better off wiping his hands of you and making his own way in the world."

Sam flinched from the words. They were no worse than the things he'd told himself, but hearing them spoken aloud felt as if his skin had been laid open.

"He won't make it here, you know that, of course. He's in the marsh right now, and if he makes through that, the angel will lead him to my old fortress … and I can assure you, none of them will make it out of there alive. All my traps are still intact, still holding the creatures, still lethal. No one has been in there and made it out yet."

Sam stilled. Dean was following. And Castiel with him. The marshes were more than halfway, there would still be time. He wondered if he should tell the mage that his brother was the Corival. It might shake him, might take the armies out of the mountains and save the people in the villages. But it might give the mage warning, might give Lucifer warning, might focus their attention on his brother and get him killed before he could do what he had to do. He sat silently, his thoughts spinning chaotically through his mind.

"You've never come close to winning, Sam." Samyaza watched him. "You don't have the strength and neither does your brother. Your weakness will be your undoing this time as well as all the others. And his. And while I would be merciful enough in any other circumstances to let you die together, unfortunately my need to keep a tight control over the Fates does not allow me to give you that release. You and your brother and the angel will last a long time as the living sacrifice."

The Watcher stood, swaying against the motion of the ship. "Nothing is going to stop me, Sam. Nothing is going stop the Lord of Darkness."

Valenis stared fixedly into the dark water, not seeing or feeling the tears that rolled down her cheeks, splashing softly on the smooth wood of the table. The images were clear, rolling on and on, showing her detail she would rather not have known.

* * *

Black River had been saved. She straightened as the water became clear again, wiping her face impatiently with the back of her hand. The Watcher's army did not know that they had only two of the bombs left. But if they returned to the village, they would feel again the explosive blasts and she hoped that they would draw the obvious conclusion.

_Vasilii__̆__ was dead._

She felt her sorrow rising again and pushed it away. There would be time to grieve for the fallen when the people were safe. To give in to her feelings now would only make her weaker. And she could not be weak now.

She thought of the leader's daughter and wondered what Ruane's reaction would be. Leadership was not hereditary in the villages, leaders were chosen by common consent, but it often followed that a leader's son or daughter had the strength and the courage and the wit to follow them, and to build on what their parents had achieved. Vasiliĭ's father had been the leader of Deep Ice before he'd been killed.

Ruane was already bearing sorrow. The healer stood up slowly, uncertain of whether or not she should add to that now. She sighed. Sooner or later, the girl would find out. It would be better for everyone if she found out from someone who cared about her, than from someone who didn't know her well, didn't know about Sam.

Torgva would be returning now, she knew, he would leave Elbek with the ballistas and Kirill with the group defending the war machine on the hill, and he would come back to them. She turned and left the room, hurrying up through the square to the keep. There was a lot to prepare with the warriors returning to the village, and decisions to be made about what to do next.

* * *

The marshes felt warmer to Dean than the surrounding countryside. He looked down at the frozen reeds, the thin glitter of the ice at the edges of the pools, the hard crusts of frozen mud, and shook his head at the proof that it probably wasn't. It still felt warmer than the forests and occasional open fields they'd spent the previous day riding through.

His mare picked her way through the shallow ponds of standing water, over the soft tussocks of dead grass, and around the rotting trees, following closely behind Cas' horse, both of them sticking to the trail that Alis was leading them along. The lonely cry of a loon sounded toward the edges of the forest, and he looked around, realising that they were leaving the forest behind quickly despite their slow pace, he could no longer see the river bend where they'd entered the bogs.

He couldn't see the signs that Alis was following, the whole damned place looked the same to him. Trust hadn't ever been something that had come easily to him, or that he took lightly, and he found it hard to trust Alis' assertions that she could lead them safely through the swamp and quickmud, that this was the quickest way to Sam.

They'd ridden into the marshes after dawn, the mists rising from the moist ground clinging to them for hours until the sun had gained enough height and heat to dissipate them. Now, as it rode low near the horizon, the mists were rising again, filmy and tenuous, spiralling lazily above the stretches of flat, silvered pools, gaining strength as the heat disappeared from the air, and cool blue shadows began to fall across the land.

Less than half an hour later he squinted through the thick grey mist, unable to see Castiel for more than a few minutes at a time. He pushed his mare forward, until she was crowding the rump of the angel's horse.

Ahead, Alis stopped on an islet, barely big enough to contain the three horses and themselves.

"We will have to stop here. It's too easy to lose the path now." She glanced around the silent country. "And the Whisperers and näkki will be stirring soon."

Dean frowned. "Näkki?"

"Water spirits. Sometimes they're malevolent, sometimes not. It is better not to take a chance with them."

She dismounted, moving the mare to the centre of the islet, untying her saddlebag and pulling out several small pouches. Without looking at either man, she began to walk around the perimeter of the solid ground, spilling a fine grey powder from one of the pouches, moving clockwise.

Dean and Castiel slid from their horses, holding them and watching her as she moved around them in a circle.

"What is that?" Castiel looked at the trail she left.

"The barrier for the protective circle we will need tonight." She glanced up at him, stopping as she reached where she'd started. "This will keep us safe. You must not leave the circle. You will not find your way back to it once you are outside of it. It does not make us disappear, exactly, but it makes us very hard to see."

Dean looked down at the grey powder along the ground. He'd made protective circles before, of salt, of symbols. He knew the way they worked.

She opened the second bag and walked the other way, a pale pink powder dusting the ground over the grey line.

"Stay away from the line. If you break the circle, I cannot remake it and we will be seen."

There was no possibility of a fire, and the frozen elk meat remained in the hide bags as they chewed on flatbread and dried fruit. The air was damp and cold, the horses moved restively, but remained within the circle. None of them felt like prolonging the evening, climbing into bedrolls as soon as the scant meal was finished. Dean looked over at Cas, the angel taking the first watch, sitting hunched against the damp, moist air, his eyes watching the darkness. Alis was little more than a lump under the furs of her bedroll and he looked away, shifting his shoulders against his saddle, trying to find a place where the tussocks didn't dig into his ribs.

* * *

It was an hour past midnight when he woke suddenly, hearing his brother's voice on the still night air. He sat up, looking around.

"It is the Whisperers, Dean. They have been calling for some time now." Alis' voice came out of the darkness to his right.

He stared into the blackness surrounding them, unable to see anything, not even his hand as he lifted it in front of his face. The mists were still there, he could feel the clammy touch of the moisture on his skin.

"Is it warmer here?" He thought they'd be sheeted in ice by this time of the night.

"A little, the marshes give off a small amount of heat all the time as the plants rot inside of them."

He looked around again, hearing the drip of water and odd, intermittent pops and crackles from the bogs around. It took several minutes for his eyes to register the thread of light that outlined a pond several yards away, a greenish white light that was brightening very gradually. He frowned at it, trying to see what was causing it.

"Alis? Do you see that?"

He heard the whisper of the fur as she turned toward him.

"Näkki. Don't look at them." Her voice was low, the command sharp. He turned from the phosphorescent light reluctantly.

"What do they do?" he asked, realising that behind him the light was continuing to brighten, he could make out the edge of the fur around him, the quarters of the horses standing to one side of the circle. The thought of something moving behind him, emerging behind him, strummed on his nerves. He tightened his control over the desire to turn around and look at whatever it was that was there.

"They are … shapeshifters, appearing to those who come near as loved ones or as a man or woman of great beauty to seduce them," she said. "They draw their victims back into the water and drown them, then eat them."

"Huh. Nice." Dean looked toward her. "So they won't attack us?"

He could see the outline of her profile now and he saw her shake her head. "No, they cannot cross the circle." She glanced his way, her gaze on the ground. "You should go back to sleep."

He nodded, lying down and pulling the fur over his shoulder, closing his eyes. Against the lids he could see the light shifting and he wondered if Alis had her eyes closed against the näkki, or if she watched them emerging from the pools. He opened his eyes again, seeing her face clearly now, her eyes closed tightly and turned away from the light.

The movement was in the corner of his vision and he turned toward it involuntarily. The woman stood, ankle deep in the water just outside of the circle. His eyes widened as he looked at her, his heart starting to hammer against his chest. The light faded from the smooth pale flesh, and he saw long blonde hair, with its distinctive curl at the ends. Her face was oval, the jawline clear and delicate, yet still strong. Large blue-grey eyes looked at him, the darker lashes framing them against her fair skin. He watched as his mother smiled at him, a gentle love in her eyes, the way he remembered her looking at him when he was sick, or in bed, ready for sleep.

"Dean? Come on, it's time to get up, time to go, baby." The voice was Mary's, neither high nor low, made memorable by the soft burr in it, warm and filled with tenderness.

He lay there, hunched under the fur, staring at her, knowing it was a trick, it was a monster under her face, but unable to look away, unable to deny himself the chance to see her again, the way he remembered her, would always remember her, young and beautiful and comforting, the last remnant of his world when it had been safe and secure and his biggest problem had been deciding on what kind of pie he wanted for dessert.

"Dean, come with me, sweetheart, we'll make it just as it was." She was on the edge of the circle, the vague outline of clothing resolving into the white cotton nightdress he'd last seen her wearing, the crisp white material bright against the smooth, golden summer tan that had persisted even into fall. He didn't feel himself moving, didn't feel the fur slide off his shoulder as he sat up.

She took a step back, into the water and he leaned forward, his attention, his senses, every fibre of his being completely focussed on her. The longer he looked at her, the more likely it felt that it was his mother, alive somehow in this time, this place, come back for him.

"Dean!"

He heard the voice distantly, some part of his mind registering the urgency in it, but pushing it away as he watched his mother take another small step backward into the water. She couldn't be leaving, not now, not again, not when he needed to tell her so much, ask her so many things.

"Dean! Turn away!"

The voice was closer and he saw the face of his mother change slightly, brows drawing together and lips lifting away from her even white teeth. He felt fingers dig into his shoulder, pulling him hard, and he shook them off, rolling onto his knees as Mary stepped back again.

Hands against his chest, shoving him backward, and someone blocked his view, his mother disappearing behind a face and a loose cloud of auburn hair. He fell onto his back against the saddle, a body lying on top of him, then warm lips against his mouth, the thoughts of Mary fracturing into a thousand pieces as Alis kissed him, the urgent demand of the kiss igniting a heat that spread out through him and crackled along his nerves.

He heard a high, wild scream from the marsh behind her, followed by a loud splash, but this time, he didn't open his eyes.


	36. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

* * *

Castiel sat up at the scream, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he looked around their small camp, the last of the light fading from the marsh pool.

"What happened?"

Dean felt Alis pull back against his arms, letting her go, barely able to see her move back to her bedroll. He sat up slowly, perversely glad of the deepening darkness, hiding his expression, and hers.

"Nothing, Cas. Just a näkki visit," he said quietly.

He closed his eyes. He could give up on any ideas of sleep now, he thought, the sense memories strong and insistent and lighting him up even as his body settled into a familiar throbbing ache he knew would last for a while.

"I told you not to look," Alis' voice came out of the darkness, low and throaty and shaken.

"Yeah," he acknowledged resignedly. She hadn't been wrong about the water spirit's ability to pick what the victim was least able to resist. Only the sight of his mother could have gotten him to cross the circle, to go willingly into the water. Even knowing that it wasn't real hadn't been enough to overcome the need to see her again.

"Dean? You sound strange."

He snorted softly at the understatement of the observation, lying down again, pulling the fur over him. "I'm okay, Cas."

He wasn't okay. He couldn't pick apart the tangle of emotions that were making his heart ache and his head pound, and with the angel and Alis lying there listening in the dark, he couldn't do anything about his physical discomfort either.

* * *

The day had dawned grey and cold, the strong briny smell of the sea competing with the equally strong scent of pickled herring, blowing over Sam from the aft quarter, where the sailors ate the fish straight from a small wooden barrel.

The seas were long, and not high, their foaming crests white against the shades of grey that seemed to fill every other corner of his vision. The wind had been steady for two days now, and he thought they were more than halfway to their destination, whatever that was. Two more of the Scythians had disappeared during the night, washed over the rail, Ásbjorn had told him in passing, although he had his suspicions that they'd been pushed overboard by the Norsemen, the unmistakable signs of decomposition too much for the sailors who were ruled by superstitions.

He dragged his thoughts back to the prophecy, brow furrowing as he forced himself through it again, trying to wring more information from it. Lucifer's rising would be presaged by a celestial event. The Sun brightening tenfold … solar flare? A very big one might be visible, the earth's magnetic fields would be disrupted … perhaps the northern lights would be affected. He chewed on his lip. There was no way he could be sure of what it meant. The second part was easier. A day without a night, a night without a day. An eclipse, solar rather than lunar. He wondered when it would be. If he could get a single glimpse of the night sky, he might be able to tell. Or at least make an educated guess.

Cesare wanted to use them for the living sacrifice. The prophecy had said three heavenly children, he was sure of that. They might all have angel blood in their veins, but they were a long way from being children. How could that work? What was wrong with the children he had already trapped and was using? Or were the Fates using them up too quickly? He swallowed, pushing away the images that rose in his imagination.

The mage had been talking to the Fates, or talking to someone at any rate. He knew just enough about the three of them to be able to figure out where the potential weaknesses in them lay. Sam grimaced as he remembered the last conversation with Cesare. He'd been too shocked at what the mage had been saying to hide his reactions, to temper his answers, and he'd given the sonofabitch even more information.

He leaned his back against the thick thwart behind him, memory and thought and feeling swamping him as he thought of the sorcerer's accusations. Would any of it have happened if he'd just killed Jake when he had the chance? No dying. No deal for Dean. No Hell, no broken seal, no broken brother, maybe no Ruby and demon blood and the invincibility he'd felt when it was fizzing through his veins and lighting up his brain.

The knowledge that the chain of events had been planned, orchestrated even, was no help to him. His choices had led him down the path they'd taken, his decisions, his thoughts and feelings driving him to ever worse outcomes. He'd been angry with Dean when his brother had told him about the deal. It had been a long time later when he'd realised that he could've prevented that decision, that deal. He ran a hand through his salt-stiffened hair and sighed.

It was easy to see the mistakes with hindsight. It hadn't been so clear when he'd been in the middle of it. He'd been a fish on a hook for most of his life, played expertly, allowed to run a little, drawn back in and maybe that absolved some of the blame that lay on him, and maybe it didn't. He had a chance now to set those things right, to wipe out that future that had destroyed his family and most of his friends and the innocent bystanders who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he could figure out how it was going to go down.

_A mortal man born of an angel and a demon who will be the doorway_. The wording bothered him, nagged at him. A doorway was not a vessel. A doorway was a doorway. What if … what if in this rising, Lucifer didn't want him. What if he only needed him to come through? What if he weren't there? Could the angel come through anyone else? He didn't think so. Would the angel manifest in his own body, like the Watchers, if he could come through the doorway? A body that could be killed? As mortal as the rest of the fallen.

He looked up as Samyaza crouched beside him. The Watcher's eyes were clear, silver-grey and his own.

"You need to eat something, Sam." He glanced back to the sailors, his nose wrinkling slightly. "I realise that it does not smell the best, but you cannot go without food."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "If I eat that, it'll just go over the side to feed the fish, Samyaza."

"I believe that if you hold your nose and swallow fast you will not taste it." The Watcher's face was earnest. "It will be at least three more days at sea."

Sam smiled. "Do you think it matters to me if I die on the way?"

"It should. You cannot fight if you are dead."

He felt his eyes widen very slightly at the Watcher's words. "Lucifer cannot come through if I am, either."

"Don't believe that." The Watcher paused, feeling someone come up behind them.

Sam looked over his head, nodding to Ásbjorn as the Norseman stopped behind the Watcher. He watched a faint frown pass over his face as he looked down at Samyaza and wondered what he'd noticed.

"You need to eat, ørlendr. There is some salted beef as well, although the herring tastes better." Ásbjorn looked at him, humour glinting in the blue eyes. "I will bring it, you will eat."

It didn't sound like a question to Sam and he nodded. It would probably break his jaw to chew the stuff, but it wouldn't make him want to hurl. He watched Ásbjorn turn away and looked back Samyaza.

"How do I know you're not lying to me? You have before."

"You don't." The Watcher stood, glancing over his shoulder. "You have to ask yourself what reason I would have for lying."

He turned away as Ásbjorn returned, carrying a deep bowl of dried jerky strips. The seaman passed Sam the bowl, and lifted his foot to the thwart, fiddling with the rawhide lacing that kept the fur pelts around his calves.

"That man has something in the back of his head," he said softly. "Something that should not be there, I think."

Sam lifted a piece of jerky from the bowl, biting into it then tucking it into his cheek as he looked forward up the ship. "What does it look like?"

"A bead of stone, a bright stone, a jewel."

The device that Araquiel and Gadriel had told Castiel of. He looked back Ásbjorn, raising the bowl.

"Thank you."

"Eat." The Norseman turned and looked behind them, along the eastern horizon where a thin black line showed above the waves. "We might make the island before that reaches us, but I would not count on it."

* * *

Elbek, Geny and Torgva leaned on the wall at the top of the watchtower. The valley had been quiet for two days, the demon bodies drained of blood to make more blood metal, then incinerated. Thick black smoke had risen into the still air, shadowing the village and finally dissipating this morning when the northern wind began to blow down the valley, icy cold and filled with the scent of coming snow.

"You know how to use the machine. The blood metal spears will kill the Scythians and the demons inside of them."

Elbek glanced at Geny and nodded. "Is Kirill staying with the cat-a-pull?" he asked, sounding out the foreign word slowly and carefully.

"Yes. For another three days he and Lev will stay, in case the army of Armaros regains its courage and returns." Torgva sighed. They had only two of the bombs left anyway. "After that they'll leave. The other army will not be standing around doing nothing. If they are clearing the rockfall in the southern pass, we will need it to defend the southern villages. The scouts will return to Deep Ice in a few days' time. We will know more then, I hope."

"When are you leaving?" Geny looked at the blacksmith.

"Tonight. After Vasiliĭ is …" Torgva stopped, looking down at his hands as they rested on the stone wall, waiting for the thickness in his throat to ease, "… is sent to the gods."

The single pyre burned furiously in the strong wind, flaming against the darkness of the surrounding mountains. Torgva watched the fire, his heart aching for the passing of his friend. Like his father, Vasiliĭ had died too young.

The field was filled with people, the villagers of Black River, and the warriors brought from the south, watching the fire burn in silence. In normal times, the death of a leader like Vasiliĭ would have been more elaborate. All the leaders of the villages along the long valley would have been there. War took more than life, when it came. It took the very traditions that helped ease grief and sorrow, it took the promise of the future and the memories of the past and gave no one the time needed to make sense of the changes.

The logs fell in on themselves, sending a shower of sparks up into the night and Torgva straightened, turning away from the fire, and the village, the two hundred warriors who were leaving with him, following him across the river to the camp.

* * *

Ruane was standing on the palisade wall, waiting for them when they came down the long curving road toward the village. Beside her, she heard Valenis' long exhale. The gates were open, and several cooking fires had been lit outside of the walls, to feed the men and women who would not be staying, but continuing their journey south to get back to their own villages.

Torgva rode in through the gates, followed by the warriors and hunters of Deep Ice. He dismounted in the crowded square, his eyes searching through the mass of people for one. Valenis smiled as she walked between two horses, and he released the breath he'd held as he enfolded her in his arms, feeling her strength pour into him, and the deep sense of contentment he felt when she was near to him. She knew the pain he was feeling, would be able to offer comfort as no other could, and he would finally be able to sleep again, with her lying against his side.

Ruane came up hesitantly behind the healer. Torgva looked at her, and straightened slowly.

"He died quickly, Ruane. Bravely," he said quietly, and she nodded, her eyes bright with tears that she did not let fall.

"Is the northern army defeated, Torgva?"

"No. Chased off for the moment. Not defeated." He glanced down at Valenis. "There are thousands of them, Ruane. They will come back, until they have found what they are looking for, or have wiped us out."

"Will the people of Black River be able to withstand them?"

"I think so. The demons couldn't breach the walls. They have more warriors there now, enough to move the stores into the keep and be able to keep up their defences."

"Good." She looked away, at the men and women who filled the square, stripping off their armour and settling their horses. "The scouts have not returned from the south yet."

"A day or two more, I think." Valenis looked at the young woman gently. "It is several days to Stone Well and they must be very careful beyond that."

Ruane nodded, taking the blacksmith's hands in her own. "It is good to have you home, Torgva."

"It is good to be home, Ruane." He gestured to the carts now trundling in through the gates. "We have a lot of demon blood. I will be making swords, arrowheads, spears for the ballista, Lev has an idea for a bomb that does not need the explosive powder."

"Good. The more ways we have of killing these demons, the more quickly we can rid our world of them." She turned away from them, heading for the keep, threading her way through the people and horses.

Torgva looked at his wife. "She has changed."

Valenis watched Ruane disappear up the path. "Yes."

* * *

The eastern horizon had darkened very quickly, and Alis watched it carefully, pushing them to move faster as they cleared the outer edge of the marshes and came into the low rolling hills, wide plains and winding streams to the north.

"What's wrong?" Castiel came up beside her, following her gaze as she looked to the east again.

"I'm not sure, Casteel." She looked around them, the gently rolling countryside showing little cover in any direction. "We have to find some cover, something to protect us."

"Why?"

"My mother told me about a wind, a wind that brings ice and death, a wind that comes from the north east." She shook her head. "She called it the _poorga_."

Castiel's head snapped around. "From Siberia? Sabirs?"

"Yes."

"I have heard of this wind. You're right, we need to find cover." He looked back at Dean. "We have to move fast."

Dean watched them push their horses into a canter, then a gallop and closed his legs on his mare's sides, feeling her stretch out to catch up to the others. _What was going on now?_

They kept heading north, driving the horses on until they began to slow, letting them to a walk or stop briefly to graze and regain their wind, then pushing on again. The forests were spaced out, there were no settlements on the open plains, and Alis had started to think of how they could build a shelter that would be strong enough and safe enough to keep them alive if they were trapped out here.

"Why are we running?" Dean looked at Castiel, as they stopped again.

Castiel pointed to the eastern horizon where the darkness had thickened and was visibly moving closer. "The _poorga_ is a wind that comes out of Siberia. It is ferocious and dangerous in our time, but in this time, the Siberian high is much bigger, edging well past Russia and across Poland, even stretching as far as west as Germany or sometimes Belgium. The high draws down extreme cold, from the stratosphere, sometimes higher, the cold of space, Dean. In winter, most of the time the high is stable. That depends on other things but in this time, the high is not always stable, the forces that affect it are not stable."

Dean stared at him. "So another snowstorm? Like the _buran_?"

Alis led her horse back to them, and for a moment he saw the stark fear in her eyes. "Much worse than the _buran_. Much worse. That was a winter storm." She lifted the reins over her mare's head, swinging back into the saddle. "To be outside in this storm is to die."

Castiel mounted, waiting for Dean. "In our time, your time, you heard the discovery of the mammoth, found snap frozen with the grass still in their mouths?"

Dean frowned. He had a vague memory of hearing that at some time. Possibly at school. "Maybe."

"Those mammoth were killed by a storm like this. Snap frozen as they ate."

The angel's words sank into him. "If we can't find shelter?"

"We'll try to make a shelter. Or we'll die."

They rode up over the crest of the hill, eyes frantically searching the valley before them for anything that would keep them safe. Alis looked along the valley where the hillside gentled out, thinking that it would be the place to start digging. She felt her chest hitch up with a half-sob as she started down the long slope.

Castiel followed her, staring at the ground. The soil was hard here on the hill, the vegetation stunted and scrubby. He had the feeling that the ground would be well-frozen for at least a dozen feet. He wasn't sure how they would be able to dig into it.

Dean turned to look back, feeling the icy outriders of the storm that pursued them, and was catching up, cutting through the thick fur around him. He looked back to the valley, pushing the mare slowly down the slope, letting his gaze drift over the landscape, looking for differences, looking for anything that broke the pattern of the vegetation, the rock, the soils, the way the streams meandered along the bottom of the valley. The urgency of their situation beat against him, and he pushed it aside, not seeing Alis and Castiel trotting down ahead of him, just looking for any break in the broad valley floor.

He saw it as he reached the halfway point, his eyes suddenly narrowing at the different colouration of the thin trees and shrubs less than a mile away.

"Cas, Alis, over there." He cantered down after them, accelerating as they turned to look. On the valley floor it was difficult to see the subtle difference between the trees that were shallow-rooted due to the permafrost, and those that couldn't push their roots deep due to the blocks of stone that lay under the thin topsoil. He kept his gaze fixed on what he'd seen, felt the mare gather herself and jump the stream along the path, heard the hollow thunder of the other two horses' hooves behind him.

As they got close, the ruins became visible and obvious. The town or settlement had once been quite substantial, built of the grey and rose stone that broke through the thin soils of the region, the masonry accurate and smooth, if not elaborate. Castiel looked around as they rode between the fallen buildings, wondering what had destroyed it.

Alis pulled up in what might have been a square, once, sliding off her horse and stringing her bow. She looked up at Dean.

"Can you shoot?"

He nodded, dismounting and bracing the recurve bow against his hip as he slipped the string over the notched end. They gave the reins to Castiel and moved fast through the buildings. Stone wasn't enough, Alis thought feverishly. They needed to be deep, under the ground. The last building on the corner of the square had what she was looking for. Inside the still-standing corner between two walls, was a square of black, the wide, shallow steps leading down into the darkness.

"Here." She grabbed a dried and dead branch from the stunted and twisted tree near the wall, snapping it off at the fork and Dean pulled out the flint and steel he carried everywhere now, lighting the end. The simple torch was already fluttering with the gradually increasing wind, and they hurried down the steps.

The basement of the building had been built nearly thirty feet under the ground, a wide, rectangular room, with several walls helping to hold the foundations of the building above it. Moving through to the last one, Alis nodded.

"This will be enough, I think. If we can keep it warm, a big fire, the wind cannot reach in here."

She left the torch burning against the wall, and followed him up the stairs.

* * *

The seas were mountainous, the longship slowing as it struggled up the high sides of each wave, and quickening when it surfed down the long slope following, the prow far out over the trough when it balanced on the cantilever point, teetering on the crests, only to be pushed forward again by the wind. The drop was steep and horrendously loud, making even the Norsemen pale.

Overhead, dark clouds scudded past them, ripped into shreds by the icy wind that was blowing from the south east. Sam looked at the faces of the seamen, seeing their terror, locked down, as they moved around the ship, checking the rigging, easing the sail when they could, or hauling it in tighter when an extra knot of speed meant the difference between making it over the wave or rolling off the side and plunging into the trough.

Ásbjorn was on the tiller, his long hair lifted and tossed, bright as a flame against the darkness of sea and sky, the huge muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing constantly as he wrestled for the control of the boat with the sea. The sail was still fully set, the yard and mast moaning loudly with the stresses on the timber, the rigging thrumming like piano strings as the wind pushed hard against the sail. Sam looked at the crude ringbolts that held the rigging to the hull, watching them work in the holes, rattling when the sail eased momentarily, slamming against the timber when the wind filled it again. Could the ship take this punishment? And if so, for how long?

Samyaza sat next to him, braced between the thwarts, his face smooth and hard as he watched the crew, watched the storm catching up to them. He'd told Sam about it, an ice storm, unheard of in this sea, a storm in which the wind and the cold would rip them to pieces if they couldn't outrun it.

Another Scythian had been lost, catapulting over the bulwarks when the first gust had hit and the ship had spun on her long axis, sending the men crashing to the deck, into the hull. Two of the crew were lying on the deckboards, one with a broken leg, as he'd been thrown against the thwart, the other with broken ribs from the impact with the rail. Sam had felt the boat drop off the crest and had been lucky that he'd braced himself the right way, the force of the hull hitting the trough below them and spinning around had shaken his teeth and knocked the breath from his lungs.

Ásbjorn screamed his orders against the rising wail of the wind and the crew obeyed instantly, dragging the long yard arm to one side as the red-haired man had lashed the heavy rudder to the other side, the ice in the wind already burning in their lungs, and Sam saw the crackle of white appearing along the horizontal surfaces of the ship, frost forming as he watched. He was surrounded by the men a moment later, as they pushed into the narrow wooden frame between the mast and the thwarts and the thick pinrails in between. From the mast chest, the spare sail came out and was thrown over them, the heavily waxed cloth that Ásbjorn had given him was pulled down over the sail and tied off to the exposed ribs along the hull, until they were in darkness, bodies pressed close together and furs and clothing, wet and dry, covering every inch of skin possible. Ásbjorn was the last in, drawing in the coverings tightly behind him, the incredibly thick and heavy polar bear pelt he wore spread out over himself and those around him.

Through the ragged breathing of the men huddled together, Sam heard the voice of the wind suddenly rise, shrieking through the rigging and around the mast, and he felt the cold drop over them, piercing the cloth and the furs and sucking the heat from their bodies. The ship had lifted and for a second the sound of the sea along the hull vanished, leaving them in a terrifyingly eerie silence. Then they fell, ten feet, twenty, thirty feet and hit the trough, water forced through the planking of the hull, the timbers cracking like pistol shots, and over that, the explosion as the sail burst, the woven cloth unable to take the pressure against it.

The men were thrown against each other, fingers closing tight on whatever was closest to them, crowding close as the longship rolled drunkenly at the bottom of the wave and was slowly lifted again, the following sea roaring under them as they raced down the long slope, slewing from one side to another, the lashed-down rudder taking them across the slope of the wave instead of straight up and straight down.

Water sloshed underneath them, slow leaks from the cracked planks in the hull, more thrown over the bow and stern as the ship surged over the rolling waves, driven fast before the wind against her bare pole, even the noise of the wild flapping of the shreds of the sail drowned under the eldritch haggish scream of the storm. In the darkness and the cold, Sam felt their fear as clearly as he felt his own, the muttered prayers to the to the Sækonungar, gods of the sea, of the winds and storms and sky, for their deliverance, no different from the prayers in his heart to whatever had lifted him and Dean from a convent in Maryland as Lucifer had risen, to come to his aid again.

Even mortal fear cannot be sustained indefinitely. As the hours went by, and the ship continued to surf and skate and skitter over the seas, neither broaching nor sinking nor breaking into a thousand pieces, the minds and bodies of the men began to shut down, exhausted by emotion, by effort, by cold.

* * *

The man walked up the frozen track, a dark staff in his hand, his cowled and hooded cloak drawn closely around his face, leaving it in shadow. His boots left tracks over the white hoar, and the dim grey light of the approaching dawn cast his shadow pale and long across the slope beside him. Only a short way ahead, the double palisade wall of the village followed the curve of the road, and he saw the guards positioned at intervals along its length, heard their calls as they saw him come along the road.

He stopped by the closed and barred gates, looking up at the narrow gatehouse that sat slightly out from the wall.

"Show your face, traveller."

A dozen arrows lifted as the man raised his hand, pushing the hood back from his face, revealing long dark hair, a strong tanned face, with dark winged brows and blue eyes, as bright as the desert sky.

"What is your business here?" The guard looked down, frowning slightly in partial recognition.

"I have come to offer my services to the village of Deep Ice and its leader."

He watched the men turning, looking behind them as someone else came up to the rampart, pushing past the archers to lean over the wall.

"Penemue?" Ruane looked down at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and relief.

"In the flesh." The Watcher glanced at the gates to his right. "I've been walking for a month. Is there any chance I could come in and we could have this discussion in front of a fire with something to eat?"

"Open the gates." She called to the gatekeepers, turning and racing down the ladder to the square.

The Watcher walked in through the narrow gap opened for him, and looked down at the young woman in front of him, lips compressing slightly as he took in the changes in her since he'd seen her last.

"Is Cas around?"

She shook her head. "A lot has happened since we left you. Come, there's a fire in the hall and food and tea."

He followed her up the half paved path to the keep, using his staff to keep his footing over the glazed ice that coated the slick mud.

Ruane glanced back at him. "Are you staying?"

The Watcher nodded. "For as long as I'm needed."


	37. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

* * *

Sam woke abruptly, feeling an elbow pressed hard against his ribs, almost gagging on the smells that surrounded him, fish and salt and the ripe odours of unwashed clothing, the smell of decay and of wet fur and wet leather. He struggled upwards, the chains attached to his wrists clanking and dragging over the man beside him, the others stirring now, opening their eyes in the dimness beneath the sails and covers.

He couldn't hear anything from outside of their tight shelter. No waves, no wind, not a sound to indicate that they were still afloat, still at sea.

When the covers were pulled free, and the men had untangled themselves from the deck boards and snarled lines and from each other, he sat up, dragging in a deep lungful of the icy, burning air, staring around.

The boat sat limply on the glassy surface of the sea. There was not a ripple, not the smallest rill on the water to break the reflection of the billions of stars above them, sea and sky midnight blue and the feeling of floating in space, like a ship in a long-ago lost legend, catching and holding his breath. On every surface, ice shone in the starlight, coating and glazing the spars and cloth, ropes and thwarts, the salt water in the shallow bilges frozen solid against the timbers. To the east, he could see the edge of the sea, and the start of the pack ice.

Ásbjorn stood beside him, staring at the ice that had spread across the horizon, palely luminescent in the dim light. "I have never seen ice in this sea. Not here, away from land."

Sam looked around the ship. "Can everything here be repaired?"

The Norseman turned slowly, looking at the snapped tiller, the burst sail. The mast was still upright, but half of the rigging had given way, the bolts pulled out or the rope snapped.

"Yes. We can repair this." He drew the thick white fur cloak around himself tightly. The bitter chill of the storm remained in the still air.

Samyaza rolled to his knees, pulling the wet cloak around himself. "Your ship survived the storm well, Ásbjorn ."

The Norseman turned to look at him. "We were very lucky, ørlendr . The storm just brushed us with its hem, it didn't cross over us." He gestured to the land, south east of them. "The full fury was spent there."

Sam's gaze followed the gesture. Somewhere there, Dean and Castiel were struggling to reach him. Had the storm killed them? He remembered the sound of the wind, the brutal force of it pushing the ship into the steep seas. If that had been a brush, what had it been like in the centre of that ferocious maw?

He felt Samyaza's eyes on him, sensed that they would be reddened. As his knowledge grew about the mage, Cesare's knowledge of him was also growing. He didn't look at the Watcher, turning away to help the men, as they began to clean the ship of debris and ice.

* * *

Alis and Castiel gathered wood, as Dean led the three horses down the steps and into the basement. He tied them to the far corner of the room, away from the doorway where they would light the fire, set their bedrolls. Pulling the saddles and gear from their backs, he ran his hand through the thick furry hide, lifting then smoothing the hair back. It wasn't much of a rub-down for all their efforts, but it was all he had time for. It was dry in the room, cold but not damp, the walls lined with cut blocks of stone.

He passed Castiel on the way down with a load of wood, and ran the rest of the way up. Alis staggered under the load she carried, unable to see the steps, feeling her way with her feet. Dean hesitated at the top of the stairs, watching her move down slowly, then turned away. The horses needed fodder if the storm lasted more than a day.

Behind the shallow rise they'd come down, the sky was black. He cut armfuls of dried grass, the twiggy evergreen branches of the shrubs he'd seen the animals browsing on when there was nothing else, dry and half-frozen reeds, bundling the mix into stooks as the cold penetrated the valley and the sun disappeared entirely.

Wood was plentiful around the ruins, dead and dried trees, stunted and twisted, filled the spaces between the great stone blocks and fell over the walls still standing. Alis and Castiel raced up and down the stairs, dragging what they could down to the basement, both with half their attention fixed on the sky, on the wind. When Dean came up the second time, he felt the harsh peppering of fine snow against his skin, and realised that they were out of time.

The storm dropped over them with a shocking suddenness, the air filled with snow and the wind along the long front clawing and biting through their clothing, as the temperature simply dropped without warning. Alis was halfway back up the steps when Dean came barrelling down them, shaking his head, the skin of his face pinched and white around his eyes, reddened over his cheekbones. She turned and ran with him down to the bottom, the air burning in their lungs as they twisted and turned around the maze-like walls, following the leap of shadows and the bright yellow flames of the fire Castiel had lit. The cold pursued them down, the wind howling around the walls at the top of the stairs, and they stopped beside the angel, all three frantically throwing branches and sticks onto the fire as the warmth was bled out of the air, even next to the flames.

_Cold from space_, Dean thought, dragging the fur bedroll around his shoulders, shivering uncontrollably, his body's heat withdrawing from his limbs.

"No, make a single roll, we need to share." Castiel looked over his shoulder at them, spreading out the bison hide shelter beside the saddles and bedrolls. "We build up the fire and get under the hide."

Alis looked at the horses, who stood, tails tucked tightly against rumps, huddled close together in the corner of the room. She pulled a heavy blanket, woven of goat hair, from her saddle, throwing it over the three of them.

They moved slowly, their blood sluggish with the deepening cold, the heat of the fire seeming almost illusory. Alis dragged their bedrolls together over half of the thick bison hair of the shelter hide, layering the furs to make a single pile, her fingers blue and stiffening. She pulled her mittens from her belt and dragged them on, taking off her cloak to add to the pile, and wriggling quickly into the centre as Castiel and Dean crawled under next to her, the angel sitting up and dragging the flap of the hide shelter over the top of them. The opening between the two halves of the folded shelter faced the fire, but none of them could feel its warmth, or hear the crackle and rush of the flames through the wood over the rising shriek of the storm above.

Lying in the close confines under the hide, it seemed to take a long time before Dean felt a little more warmth in his body, moving his fingers slightly, aware that he could once again feel the fur against them, that his toes registered the soft, springy wool surrounding them in his boots. The flicker of the firelight was dim under the hide, his cloak pulled over his head and around his face cutting the light further, but he could make out the strands of curly bison hair above him, and he realised that he couldn't see his breath anymore, their combined heat under the layers of coverings warming the small space enough to begin to counteract the cold.

"How cold is it out there, Cas?" His voice was rough, hoarse and low, and he swallowed to get some moisture into his throat.

"I don't know," Castiel whispered. "Cold."

He mouth twisted derisively at the angel's curt answer. "You getting warmer?"

"A little."

"Me too."

"We'll probably survive," Castiel said dryly. "Try and sleep, Dean. There's nothing else we can do until the storm has gone."

He nodded, shifting under the furs, closing his eyes. He felt tired, partly the adrenalin hangover, he thought, and partly the cold. He'd been careful all day not to think about what had happened in the marshes, careful not to look at what he'd felt, seeing her there, but not looking at it didn't make it go away. Something had happened, when his father had exchanged his life for his son's. Something had changed in him. Something more than the agony of guilt at the unasked for sacrifice. While his father had still been alive, he'd felt the grief of his mother's death, but there hadn't been a sense that if she had just lived, everything would have been alright. Once his father had gone, it seemed like his only longing was to have his family back. All of them. But especially his mother. He didn't know why that was, not really.

She'd been the last person he'd let himself be vulnerable with. Even with his father, he'd had to be as strong as he could be. He couldn't … he wouldn't let his fear show. Couldn't let his father see that … sometimes … he didn't feel strong enough, that sometimes the burden was too much. He chewed on the edge of his lip, slipping back into the past. His job had been simple. Watch his father's back. Look after Sam. Mediate between them when it seemed like they might rip each other to pieces. Keep them all together.

No one had told him that they loved him since she'd died.

He'd spent his life pushing people away, keeping his distance, instinctively trying to stop himself from making any connections that would hurt him further down the line. Their life had been like that, moving constantly, unable to tell people what they did, most of the time not even staying in a place long enough to get to know anyone. It hadn't bothered him, particularly, until Ohio. And he'd really learned his lesson then. For a couple of years after that, he'd been … kind of crippled, he thought, a lot of his anger, his pain, projected outward, and a lot of time spent denying what he'd felt, what he'd wanted.

Eventually he'd had to let that understanding in. He'd tried to make it all about Sam, protecting his little brother and kidding himself that it was enough, one night stands, names and faces forgotten before he'd even gotten out the door. You can kid yourself for a long time, he'd found, but not forever.

He exhaled softly. Seeing Lisa again, seeing her son, that had been the thing that had forced him into realising the truth. He'd looked at that, and had turned from it deliberately, because he'd made a deal and there was no way he was bringing that down on them. And it had been a hard thing to do, relinquishing his hope, turning away from her invitation and walking out of her door, getting in the car and driving away.

After Hell … well, everything had changed after Hell. He couldn't look in a mirror, couldn't look into people's eyes, couldn't deal with what he'd done, couldn't imagine ever being whole again. It had taken a long time and a lot of drinking to bury those memories, to wall them up and get to a point where he could function. And the nightmares were still coming, creeping through the cracks when he was defenceless in sleep. In them, he saw himself clearly, shattered, filled with darkness, outcast, unclean, unworthy.

He couldn't explain it to his brother. Couldn't explain it to anyone. And Sam, Sam had his own secrets by then.

_It's already gone too far, Sam. If I didn't know you … I would want to hunt you._

Family. Trust. Love. All the things he'd clung to, all gone. Maybe it wasn't so surprising that he'd wanted to walk out of the circle, be with someone he trusted, someone who loved him.

He felt Alis shift against him, the fur cloak whispering as it slid down. He lifted the edge, pulling it over them both, her back against his chest.

He didn't know what he felt about her, either. She was a mass of contradictions. Aggravating, competent, prickly, straightforward, some of the time at least. He'd trained with her and had admired her speed, the economy of her action, the way she'd turned the disadvantages of her smaller frame into advantage against him, even against Sam when he'd watch her spar with his brother. He knew the gentleness in her, the depths of her compassion, revealed in those first couple of weeks when he'd been in her care. He'd been surprised by it, even after Sam had told him about the reasons for it. He'd thought she'd be harder. He remembered the flashes of jealousy, watching her with Lev. He had no idea where they'd come from. They'd barely been speaking then, he'd had no reason to feel anything at the sight of her in someone else's arms.

She'd wanted him, as much as he wanted her, he thought, turning over the memory in his mind again. That kiss might have been to break the spell the näkki had cast over him to begin with, but the passion in it had been real. He felt himself stir at the memory of how it had felt. If Cas hadn't spoken, hadn't _interrupted_, would that have gone further? He didn't know. He did know that when she'd pulled away, she'd been afraid, he'd seen that much in her face. But he couldn't think of a reason for it.

He'd never worked this frigging hard with a woman before. At the first sign of irritation, he was usually out of there. Not that he could do that here, but he realised slowly that he didn't really want to do that. He wanted to know her, know why she did what she did, what she was thinking of when her face got still and her eyes became distant. He didn't know how to ask that, had no experience in getting to know someone. And, he thought, it was just easier to keep things impersonal, limit their interactions to the details of travelling, limit his thoughts to finding Sam, stopping the devil.

* * *

Ruane, Valenis, Torgva and Penemue sat in the hall, close by the fire. The scouts had returned from the south. Kokabiel's army were clearing the pass, and it would be open in a matter of days.

"With the pass open, we cannot hold the army back." Torgva looked at Ruane. She nodded.

"Will the defences of the villages hold?"

"Yes, the walls will hold. They will not be able to fight back." Torgva glanced at Valenis.

"Fields can be replanted, Torgva, homes rebuilt." Ruane looked past him to the fire. "If the people can be kept safe, then we can think of a future."

She turned to Valenis. "Have you seen Sam? In the water?"

Valenis sighed and nodded. "He is on a ship in the northern sea. They were brushed by a storm, an ice storm, I think." The images had been strange. She'd never seen the sea of the north look like that. "But he is alive, and the Watcher. They will be delayed in reaching the sorcerer, I think."

"Is it enough time for Dean and Castiel and Alis to reach him?"

Valenis shook her head. "No. A few days, that is all."

"Where are the others?"

"The storm passed over where I last saw them, I haven't seen them in the water since." She had been looking, calling their images in the water and in the fire, but there had been nothing for a full day now.

She felt Torgva's hand tighten on hers. "I think I would feel it if they were dead. And perhaps they found somewhere deep, somewhere the sight cannot penetrate."

Ruane nodded. "Elbek sent word that the army of Armaros has returned to Black River. They have enough warriors to keep them off the village. Not enough to stop them from marching south."

"We are being pressed between them." Torgva said heavily. "I do not think they will just march past us."

Penemue shook his head. "No, they will attempt to burn the villages out, even if they cannot get in."

"There are too many to fight. Even with the blood metal, even with Kirill's machines."

The Watcher nodded. "I did have a thought about that." He looked at Valenis. "Have you seen where Armaros' army is now?"

"They have passed Lightning Tree. They are a day from here." Valenis looked at him, feeling a thread of hope rising at his expression.

"Along the road, is there anywhere that is very narrow? That the horses might have to pass no more than two abreast?"

Ruane leaned forward, looking at the glint of humour far back in the Watcher's eyes. "There is one place, next to the river. The incline is steep and the river is very fast there, the road narrows so only a small wagon can pass along it at that point."

"That will do." He looked from her to Torgva and Valenis. "I don't think I've told you about holy oil?"

* * *

Elbek sat on the rampart, his back against the wall. Beside him, Geny and Sergei rested. They had been on the wall since the drums were first heard at the head of the valley, the blood metal arrows flying as the army marched past them, the throwing machine of Kirill firing the heavy iron spears into the ranks. The demons had returned fire but hadn't stopped, crossing the river and moving south.

"You think they will just go past us and leave us alone?" Sergei said finally, turning to look at Elbek.

"No. Vasilii said that they were looking for someone, someone they want to kill. I think they will kill everyone before they leave the valley."

"They cannot get in here. The walls are too strong." Geny looked warily at the younger man.

"They can stay until we run out of food, until the valley and the forests are barren with their gleaning." Elbek turned his head to the leader. "They can surround us and send fire against our building until the walls we sit on have burned to the ground, even if they can't cross the remains. It is just a matter of time."

"How many have come through?" Sergei asked.

"Over a thousand, I think have crossed the river." Elbek said tiredly.

"We still have two of Dean's explosives."

"And nothing to throw them with. And it wouldn't stop them, not from coming through."

"If we could close the Throat, that would stop them, Elbek." Sergei's face was covered in grime, but his eyes were bright. Elbek turned very slowly to look at him.

"We would have to leave now."

"Yes."

Geny looked from one man to the other. "How can you get past the Scythians?"

"Go on foot, over the peak, and along the ridge." Elbek turned to look at the arête behind the village. It was impossible to traverse on horse, but on foot they could follow it all the way to the Throat.

"Do we have enough fuse?"

"We won't need much. Not for this." Elbek straightened against the wall, thinking. "We cannot set the casings into the rock, they'll see us. We will light the fuses and throw them in. The defile is very narrow. There are fractures in the stone already."

"You'll die." Geny looked at him flatly. "If the rock comes down onto them you will not have enough time to get clear."

Elbek smiled slowly. "Then we'll die, Geny, but the rest of the army will not be able to come through. They will have to go around."

He looked at Sergei, his teeth flashing white in the gloom of the twilight shadows. "Get the fuse. I'll get the casings."

* * *

Sam glanced along the length of the ship, watching the Norsemen as they lowered the yard and unlaced the few remaining shreds of the sail, his hands working automatically on the splice in the end of the rope he held. Every block had been destroyed when the sail had gone, and much of the cordage on the vessel had been snapped under the strain. They'd been lucky that the yard hadn't fallen, the ten inch smoothed log spar would have crushed them easily, or damaged the hull beyond their ability to repair it out here.

The last Scythian had died in the night, along with two of the Norsemen. They'd been on the outside of the group and the cold had killed them. The bodies had been wrapped and lowered into the sea, wound about in chain to take them down as the boat wasn't moving at all.

Everything else was thawing very slowly in the thin sunshine. The air was still cold, but it was warming very gradually and the ice dripped from the surfaces, plinking softly into the water in the bottom of the boat. Sam wondered how long they would wallow here, without wind. The damage to the planks of the hull was unknown yet, ice still sealing the boat. Ásbjorn had looked at them carefully and had turned away, his face grim. It was possible that the flex and pressure of the mast and sail would work those cracks wider, when the ice melted and enough wind rose to set the sail. They would have to trust to luck that they didn't.

"There is no such force as luck in this world, Sam."

His head snapped around, meeting the red-lit eyes of Samyaza, sitting beside him, mouth stretched out in the facsimile of a friendly smile.

"You should know that by now. There is destiny and the powers of those above us and those who live below, but nothing is random, nothing is a coincidence."

Sam looked down at the rope in his hands, unable to argue that. He wondered if chance had ever, or would ever play a part in the world, now or in the future. Perhaps it was the idea of chance, of a random universe, that was the myth, not the forces that humankind had written off as superstition for the last two hundred years.

"You are the doorway, Sam. The dark Lord would never let you be killed and lost in something as easily controlled as a storm."

"Are you sure about that, Cesare?" Sam looked into the reddened irises. "Lucifer's reach is not so great from inside the Cage. He can whisper and feed you the lies you want to hear, but to reach out and control the elements? Don't you think he'd have done a lot more of that if he were capable?"

"My Lord says that you know nothing of him, Sam. He says that you are the one who is lying to me."

Sam smiled involuntarily. "What else is he going to say? That he doesn't know what the hell is going on?"

He turned slightly, facing the Watcher. "I'm the one from the future, Cesare. I'm the one who has read the histories and spoken to the angels and fought the devil."

The Watcher looked away, brows drawing together.

"Abaddon, Apollyon, the Deceiver, Most Unclean, the Dragon, Little Horn, the Prince of the Power of Air, the Beast, Shaitan, the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, the Morning Star, Beelzebub, the Father of Lies, the Lightbringer, Satan, the Son of Perdition … Lucifer, fallen from Grace, cast down by the archangel Michael, and decreed by God to remain in the Cage at the lowermost level of Hell for a thousand years." Sam said softly, staring at the Watcher's profile.

"Don't be fooled by his lies and his truths and his half-truths, Cesare. He has many names but they're all him. And he was cast down from Heaven because of his disobedience, because of his hatred for humankind, for leading a rebellion of angels against Heaven to wipe men from the face of the Earth."

He watched Samyaza's face, twisted by another's expressions as the words sank in. He wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. If Lucifer didn't rise now, in this world, at this time, through the machinations of the mage, then they would have to go back to 2010 and face him there. Would it be easier here? As a doorway, rather than a vessel? He had no intention of saying yes to the angel, but would he be able to hold out, if they went back, when they got down to the wire?

It depended on what the angel needed, he thought. He had no idea of what being a doorway meant, in real terms. He had no idea how the angel would manifest once he was through. Or what his strengths and weaknesses would be. Would he wield the same powers that he had in the future? Unknown.

"When Lucifer comes through, will he take a body, a vessel?" he asked quietly, not sure if he'd get an answer.

Samyaza looked at him, the red in his eyes flaring. "You are the doorway, Sam. What happens after he passes through you is nothing that you need concern yourself with. He will come through."

The Watcher slumped sideways, sliding from the thwart to the deck, before Sam could reach for him. He looked down at the crumpled form, kneeling awkwardly at the end of the length of his chains. He was pushing the mage's buttons all right, he thought. Cesare was struggling to hold on to his dreams of power, in the face of a lot of unpalatable truths about the lord he was serving. There had to be a way to get more information out of him, before they got there, before it was too late.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes, memory rushing back as they focussed on the faint light that outlined the strands of bison hair in front of his nose.

The storm. The basement. The cold.

He looked down. Alis lay against him, his arms curved around her, her breathing slow and steady, in the pattern of sleep. His mouth quirked very slightly to one side.

He lifted his head a little, looking over the fur that covered them, to the fire beyond. Flames still flickered but it could definitely use more wood, he thought, as he felt the icy touch of the air against his face where the covering had slipped at his movement. He eased his arm from under Alis and inched his way down under the piles of furs, moving reluctantly away from the warmth of her body, from the warmth of the hollow his own had created in the thick bedroll. Feeling around near their feet, his hand closed over the pieces of wood, and he looked out from under the cover of the hide, tossing several more pieces on top of the fire quickly, and working his way back.

He saw Alis' eyes open slightly as he found that warm hollow again.

"Could you hear the wind?" she asked very quietly. He nodded, looking past her to the dark hair that was all he could see of the angel. The storm was still raging over them.

"Is Cas asleep?"

She turned her head, shifting away from him, closer to the angel. "Yes."

"Are you warm enough?"

She nodded, the movement barely discernible under the fur. He looked at the side of her face, the light just touched the line of her brow, made a small pale triangle on the point of her cheek, he could see the shadow of her lashes lying against it.

He wanted to ask her about the näkki, but he wasn't sure how to start. She turned her head toward him incrementally, the light shifting over her face.

"The näkki …," he hesitated for a moment, looking for the words. "I knew it was a trick, knew it was a monster, I still wanted to believe in it."

He saw the slight nod again, the triangle of light returning to her cheek. "My mother told me about being trapped by a djinn, when she was in the southern deserts. It … poisoned her somehow, I don't remember how. She said she was in a dream, a dream where her man and child still lived."

He drew in a deep breath, curling up a little.

"She told me that even though she knew it couldn't be true, that the terrible pain in her heart was the truth, not the dream, she didn't want to leave it. She didn't want the truth, she wanted the dream." Alis paused for a moment, remembering her mother's face when she'd said that. Valenis had looked … torn, even then, as if in retelling a story more than twelve years after it had happened, the desire to live in the dream still persisted. "The näkki do that too, in a way. They see … sometimes not what you want, but what you need, and they offer it to you, knowing that your mind will do the rest, will convince you of the realness of it, even when you know that it is not real. It can be very hard to resist the dream when it is all that you truly desire."

She heard his exhale, fast and hard against the fur.

He closed his eyes. Was it all he wanted? For things to go back, to have never have happened? It wasn't possible so why yearn hopelessly for something he'd never get? Memories came to him, a cascading rush, filling his mind. The early mornings of the harvest, the dew cool and damp against his legs, leading the wagons over the fields, the hall at night, eating and talking, listening to the music played brightly and overlaid with the voices of the people, harmony and descant, interwoven into complex airs, discussing the preparation of a hunt with Elbek and Sam and Alis, the weapons they would need, the terrain they would cover, sitting by the fire with Vasilii and Torgva, talking through the defences of the village, a million ideas filling his mind for how to demon-proof the homes and walls, training with the hunters, learning how to fight with a sword, when to attack and when to fade out of reach, hours of shooting arrows in the warm dusk in the summer, the fletching bright against the purple sky as they rose and fell, punching into the targets … and lying here, with the weight of the furs on them, his body moulded around hers, the peace in her breathing as she slept within the curve of his arms … what was wrong with wanting that? Sam could never go back to his old life, Jess was gone, their parents were gone, and his brother was in love again, if they survived the coming confrontation … he stopped that thought abruptly.

"I'm sorry for kissing you," Alis whispered into the silence between them. "I didn't want to hit you, and –"

He looked at her, his eyes focussing again. "Don't be sorry about that, I'm not."

He expected her to turn away, to withdraw again, knowing that he'd probably pushed too hard. She didn't. She didn't look at him, or turn toward him, but she didn't move away.


End file.
